From the Ashes
by Bain Sidhe
Summary: Moira Cousland is a reluctant Grey Warden, torn unwillingly from her dying parents' side to fulfill an ancient obligation. Loghain Mac Tir was once the greatest living hero in Ferelden, until his betrayal of King Cailan at Ostagar sparked a civil war. Now, he is the only man who can help Moira stop the Blight... but can she learn to trust him in time?
1. The Landsmeet

"Well, what are you _waiting_ for? He killed Duncan! Just, _kill him already_!"

Alistair's words, delivered with far more passion than she'd ever heard from her normally feckless friend, sliced through her thoughts like a keen blade. It had been a hard battle, and she bled from more than one wound; but there he was, kneeling before her, submitting to her mercy. Loghain, the regicide, the betrayer of Ferelden. The man who had abandoned her and the army at Ostagar, and who had spent the past many months trying very earnestly to kill or thwart her at every turn. And, of course, he had allied himself with that vile snake Howe and had turned a blind eye to the arl's massacre of her entire family. Alistair did have a point. She couldn't really give a damn less for Duncan, to be honest; but for all his other sins, surely Loghain Mac Tir deserved to die.

And yet Moira Cousland did not swing her blade.

She would never be able to say precisely why she showed him mercy that day. She had always been taught that an honorable warrior does not strike down a foe who asks for quarter, of course. But also, Anora was right. This man was a hero – or had been one, once. It seemed… wrong to cut him down like a dog as he knelt on the floor of the Landsmeet chambers, while his daughter looked on in horror. Moira would not inflict the pain of watching a beloved father die on anyone.

Her deliberation was short-lived, at any rate: scarcely before she'd had time to process Alistair's words, another voice rang through the Landsmeet chambers.

"Wait! There is another option!" There could only be one Orlesian man who had cause to be present at the Landsmeet; and surely enough, Riordan broke through the crowd, striding purposefully towards her.

"Let him undertake the Joining."

Moira eyed the Grey Warden warily. The Joining… he meant to conscript Loghain?

"What? No! Have you forgotten how Loghain betrayed us _all_? I will not call this… _man_ my brother! I won't!" Alistair exploded.

Moira held Riordan's gaze, studiously avoiding Alistair's eyes. Alistair had never been entirely rational where Loghain or Duncan were concerned, and she had the uncanny feeling that all Ferelden's future hung in the balance based on the decisions she would have to make in the next few minutes. She avoided, too, looking at the now-half-standing form of Loghain, who was clearly rather confused that he still lived.

"Why? Why put him through the Joining?" she asked carefully. This _was_, after all, the man who had attempted to kill them repeatedly. While she'd had reservations about executing him on the spot, she wasn't quite ready to extend to him a welcoming hand and invite him to join the Wardens on their crusade, either.

"Because there are only three of us in all of Ferelden," Riordan explained. "And… we may need as many Wardens as possible to defeat the archdemon."

"The Joining is often fatal, is it not?" Anora chimed in, her usual haughty reserve wavering ever so slightly. "There you have your answer. If he lives, you gain a great general to fight the darkspawn. If he dies, you have your revenge. Does that not satisfy you?"

"No, it does not," Alistair said, his voice uncharacteristically edged with steel. "The Joining is an honor, not a punishment! You make him a Warden, and you cheapen us all! You can't seriously be considering this, can you?"

And yet, and yet. She _was_ seriously considering it. At last, she chanced a glance at Loghain, and found him staring at her intently, his expression inscrutable. He knew that, despite the bickering back and forth between Alistair, Anora, and Riordan, that it was she, Moira, who would be the final arbiter of his fate. It was she whom he had challenged in a duel, and she who had overcome him – and she to whom he'd given his grudging respect when her blade had at last struck home, sending him to the ground.

_You are not like Cailan, a child playing at war. _He had even compared her to Maric, the king at whose side he had liberated Ferelden from Orlesian domination. She did not imagine compliments came readily from the taciturn general, let alone comparisons to his old friend and comrade. Loghain's gracious, if grudging, praise stood in stark contrast to Rendon Howe's final moments, with which he'd mocked Moira's dead family and cursed her with his dying breath. Why would a man with such a robust sense of honor as Loghain so debase himself by consorting with such fiends as Howe? How could the man who had dedicated his entire life to Ferelden be the architect of its schism? Loghain was a paradox if ever she'd encountered one, and that nettled her.

_Who are you, really? _she thought as she stared at his unchanging countenance. _The Hero of the River Dane and savior of Ferelden, or a deserter and a king-killer? King Maric's best friend and trusted general, or the betrayer and murderer of his only legitimate son? Patriot, or traitor?_

Of course, he was all of those things. She held his life in her hands now, and yet he did not beg or entreat her; there was no plea for mercy, no last-minute mea culpa, no attempted explanations or justifications for his actions. He merely held her gaze, steadily, awaiting her decision. Having seen many men die, she knew that few faced their end so stoically. He was unrepentant; or, perhaps, he believed that whatever penance he had to offer was for the Maker's ears alone. And that was when she knew she could not kill him.

"I think Riordan is right," she said carefully. "I think we should put him through the Joining. We do need all the Wardens we can get." She could not bring herself to look at Alistair as she said the words, knowing that he would see them, despite her intentions, as a deeply personal betrayal.

And so he did. "No! You can't do this! I won't stand for it!" he bellowed. "I'll – " he paused, hesitating briefly before committing himself to the thing which he had dreaded most. "I'll do it. I'll take the crown. I'll be king, if that's what it takes to see Loghain get justice."

"Listen to him!" Anora shrilled. "He is putting his selfish desires over what is best for Ferelden! He would be a disastrous king – surely you can see that!"

Now all eyes, it seemed, were looking straight at Moira. Alistair seemed a stranger; never before had she seen such fire in his eyes, and there were no traces of the callow juvenility that he usually adopted with such practiced ease. Anora was as imperious as ever, but Moira saw the real fear lurking beneath her carefully composed countenance. Riordan watched impassively, waiting for her to make her decree. Eamon seemed impatient, as if wondering why she was taking so long to proclaim Alistair the rightful king. And Loghain – his expression had not altered in the slightest. He looked steadfastly at her, neither angry nor afraid, and she could see that he was resigned to whatever judgment she delivered. It was almost as if – but perhaps she was reading too much into things –

_Almost as if he is giving me permission_. Of all the souls in the room – only he, of all people, understood the full weight of responsibility that was now pressing, heavy and unwanted, upon her shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Alistair," she said. "You yourself know that Anora will be the better sovereign. And Riordan is right. We need all the help we can get. We need Loghain."

"Need him?" Alistair's voice was low and dangerous. "We _need_ him like we need stabbed in the back! Or have you already forgotten?"

"Alistair – "

"How you could do this?" he said, anguished. "How could you pick _him _over _me_?" His face was riven with pain, and Moira's stomach twisted into knots as she began to realize the full price of her decision.

"Alistair, it's not like that," she said firmly, but she could see that her words were useless.

"Isn't it?" His tone was flat and cold, and that hurt far worse than his furious outbursts had. "You know what? Fine. You two have a merry old time curing the Blight. But I can't be a part of this. I'm leaving."

"Alistair – "

"I'm afraid it won't be so simple as that, Alistair," Anora cut in, back to her usual clipped self now that the mortal threat to her father's life had passed. Moira felt a twinge of irritation at the interruption – couldn't she see what a savagely personal conversation she was butting into?

"As long as you live, you remain a symbol. Whether you would sanction them or not, rebellions and uprisings would be conducted in your name, under the banner of restoring Maric's true heir to the throne. Ferelden cannot survive another civil war, and I will not allow this country to be torn apart again. I am afraid I am going to have to call for your execution."

Moira's stomach sank even further – Anora wasn't serious, she couldn't be! But of course she was – and the worst part was that she was right. Hadn't Eamon used Alistair as just such a rallying cry, against his will?

"What? Are you serious? You got what you wanted! You have your crown and your wretched father – but that isn't enough for you, is it? You want my life too? The final feather in your cap?" Alistair said, his mocking tone belying the fear that Moira knew lurked beneath the jokes and jibes.

"I am truly sorry it has come to this, Alistair," she said. "Please believe me when I say I take no joy in this. But it is necessary for Ferelden."

"Yeah," he drawled hatefully. "I've noticed a lot of pretty awful things seem to be 'necessary for Ferelden' these days."

"No," Moira cut in suddenly. "Anora, you owe me a boon. This is what I ask. Let Alistair go."

"You would spend your favor on this?" Anora's tone implied what exactly she thought of _that_ decision. "Very well, though I think it unwise. You may leave, Alistair, on the condition that you will never return to Ferelden, and that you forsake all claims to the throne or any titles, for yourself or your heirs."

"Fine," Alistair hissed. "I want _nothing_ to do with any of you people again. _Ever._ I swear to that."

"Alistair," Moira said urgently. Everything had spiraled out of control so fast – all she'd wanted was to spare Loghain from a public, on-the-spot execution. She hadn't wanted any of _this_. "Alistair, wait. Please. You don't have to go."

"Yeah. I do. Or didn't you hear your queen? I get to leave, or I die," he sneered. "So bye, I guess. Have fun ending the Blight, or whatever. It doesn't make any difference to me any more." And with that, he was gone, storming through the Landsmeet chamber doors before Moira had a chance to respond. She stared after him with a growing sense of anger and grief – why had it come to this? It shouldn't have come to this!

Anora began to speak, rallying the now-united Landsmeet around her banner and declaring her support for the Grey Wardens as she named Moira her champion against the darkspawn, but Moira was barely listening. _Why_ couldn't Alistair have seen reason? Why couldn't he see that she had made the right decision for all of them?

She turned from the door – and once again, her eyes met Loghain's. His countenance remained unchanged – stoic, resolute, unafraid of what was to come. Yet again, she got the sense that he alone, in the entire chamber, knew how she was feeling at that precise moment.

_But he does, doesn't he_? For better or for worse, Loghain had made terrible, momentous decisions, decisions which had inflicted bloody consequences across all of Ferelden. Hadn't she done the same? Hadn't she single-handedly decided whom to place upon the throne of Orzammar, and killed the supporters of Prince Bhelen – and the prince himself – when they had rejected her choice? Hadn't she debated whether to choose between the Dalish elves or the werewolf victims of their curse – and if Zathrian's cure hadn't worked, whom would she have chosen?

_But it did work. And I always opted for the least violent solution wherever possible. I'm nothing like Loghain_. But as she gazed towards the Landsmeet chamber doors and thought of Alistair, she was no longer so sure.

Cheers resounded throughout the chamber as the Landsmeet applauded Anora's rousing words, but Moira could not bring herself to feel inspired. Riordan interrupted her reverie.

"I am sorry about Alistair," he said. "I understand his anger, but he of all people should know that personal vendettas must be set aside during a Blight if we hope to survive."

"You understand nothing," Moira said bitterly. Then, softening at Riordan's expression, she sighed. "I'm sorry, it's just – "

"I know. He was a friend. And even if Loghain survives, he is… not. But you cannot blame yourself for Alistair's choice."

"Can't I?" she said softly, still looking at the door. But it did not matter if she looked at the door for another hour, day, month, or year – Alistair would never come walking back through. She shook her head.

"I've had enough of this place," she said. "Let's get this over with, then."

Riordan nodded. "I will prepare the chalice. Bring Loghain to Arl Eamon's estate whenever you are ready." And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the center of the floor with Loghain.

He said nothing as she approached him, and she felt the anger rising in her chest. She'd thrown away one of the best friendships she'd ever had for _this_ man? The man who had been her sworn enemy for months, the man who'd abandoned the king to die and caused all of this heartache and bloodshed to begin with? And now he didn't even have the decency to thank her? She felt herself beginning to glower, and it deepened when she noticed a hint of a mocking smile on his face in response.

"Come with me," she said brusquely. "We're going to Arl Eamon's estate, where you'll undertake the Joining. You'll either be a Grey Warden or dead by sunset."

He furrowed his stern brows. "Yes, well, the Blight isn't waiting while we stand here dallying, is it? Let's just get to it, then."

"Fine," she snapped, and gestured for him to follow her. A stray thought of Alistair entered her mind as she exited through the very same doors he'd stormed through not so long ago, and the anger built up within her anew.

"You'd better be worth it," she snarled – though whether to him or to herself, she could not say.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So, as per usual with me, I have come to this franchise very late. I just played through DA:O - it was something I'd been meaning to do for the longest time, but things just kept getting in the way, until I decided that I wanted to get caught up in preparation for DA:I. Long story short, I loved it, and Loghain became my favorite character even before my first playthrough ended. Hence, this story. I will attempt updates as regularly as I can, but my muse can often be reluctant, so I can't promise strict timelines - but rest assured, I do not abandon stories. I hope you enjoy, and any reviews, comments, questions, criticisms, or PMs are always appreciated! Thank you for reading!


	2. Aftermath

She could feel their eyes – some filled with seething judgment, others merely with puzzled concern – turn to her as she entered the room. Wynne, in particular, glared at her in stern disapproval. Of course – she had liked Alistair the best of them all, and for him to leave, only to be replaced by Loghain, would be a bitter pill for her to swallow. Leliana looked uncomfortable, though her gaze was free of judgment or condemnation. Did her belief in the Maker's mercy extend to someone as infamous as Loghain? Time would tell. Morrigan merely looked bemused and slightly smug – but she'd always hated Alistair, and no doubt had found his distress amusing in the extreme. Moira shuddered and looked away, biting her tongue. Did they think she had driven Alistair away on purpose? She had only done what was best – hadn't she?

"So, then, have you news for us? Did our treacherous teryn survive his Joining? Will he now fight under your banner in Alistair's place?" Leave it to Morrigan to revel in the discomfort of others.

"Yes, he survived," she replied curtly. She had witnessed his Joining, and it had been as nauseating this time around as before. She had feared, for a brief moment, that he would not survive – he had cried out as the darkspawn blood poisoned his body, and fallen hard to his hands and knees, eyes clenched shut in agony. She was not sure she could have borne it if he had died that way – whatever his sins, he deserved a better death than the Wardens could offer. But he had not died, and now she – and he – had to live with what she'd done.

"I do not like this," Wynne said darkly. "Loghain, of all people? You were at Ostagar! How can you forgive him for what he did there? To the king, to all of us?"

"Who said anything about forgiveness?" she shot back, immediately annoyed with herself for sounding defensive. "Look, Wynne, Riordan was right. We _do_ need more Grey Wardens. And if Loghain can be of use to us in fighting the Blight, then how can we, in good faith, turn down his help?"

"But we _don't_ have more Grey Wardens," Wynne replied. "You have merely traded one we could trust for one we cannot. It is a poor bargain."

"I didn't ask Alistair to leave!" Now she was definitely getting defensive – this was going even worse than she'd feared. "He decided that getting revenge for Duncan was more important than staying to fight the Blight – how could I have foreseen that?"

"And how can you blame him? Would you have served alongside Arl Howe?"

Wynne's words took her aback as surely as if she'd been slapped in the face. "It is _not_ the same! Not even close! Loghain didn't personally drive a blade through Duncan's chest as he begged for mercy! Howe was a venomous snake – he slaughtered my family for his own greed!"

"And you imagine Loghain's motives are nobler? That he betrayed Ferelden out of a sense of altruism?"

"I – " She did not know, really, what to say to that. She found herself growing increasingly angry – at Alistair, for deserting her; at Loghain, for forcing her to justify his crimes to her most loyal friends; at Wynne, for blaming her for the unintended consequences of her mercy; and at herself, for stumbling around in the dark, forced to choose between bad and worse, and watching it all spiral out of control faster than she could take stock of their losses.

"You heard Anora. I am the commander of her army, and I will lead us against the Blight. I will do what I believe necessary to destroy the archdemon, and I need to know that I have your support. I spared Loghain, and he fights with us now. My decision has been made and cannot be undone." She hated ending arguments this way – like an officer silencing dissent within the ranks, rather than as a companion persuading her friends to understand her perspective. But Maker, she was so exhausted; tired of fighting darkspawn, tired of being questioned and second-guessed at every turn, tired of making terrible sacrifices for the greater good, tired of being in charge, tired of losing people she loved. And she was tired of justifying her every bloody action.

"Get some rest while you can. We leave Denerim at dawn tomorrow." And with that, she was gone, not bothering to take stock of the reaction of her friends as she stormed out of Eamon's chambers. If they didn't like her decisions, they could leave, just like Alistair.

Alistair. The shock and sadness of his departure had dulled somewhat, only to be replaced by swiftly mounting anger. In truth, she could not now honestly say that she was surprised by his actions. How long had she made excuses for Alistair's weakness? How many times had she allowed him to glibly pass all responsibility on to her, when by all rights he was the senior Warden and should have been the commander of their mission? How often had she listened sympathetically while he waxed tearfully about Duncan, his hero and father-figure, while she'd had to bite her tongue to keep from saying what she _truly _thought about the man who'd ripped her away from her dying parents in their hour of need, who had not bothered to tell her one damn thing about just how thoroughly the darkspawn blood would poison her body and soul? And now he had the nerve to leave her to fight the sodding archdemon alone because she hadn't cut "Duncan's killer" down like a dog in front of the entire assembled Ferelden nobility?

Well, no, that was not strictly true. She was _not_ alone. For better or worse, Loghain was with her, and whether or not he would be a more reliable companion than Alistair remained to be seen. She scoffed. Well, he could hardly be much worse – she didn't imagine that Loghain, whatever his faults, would run away from a battle because of a perceived personal slight.

In the midst of her agitated wanderings, she abruptly found herself staring at the door to his room in Eamon's estate. If he had been anyone else, she would have gone to him at once after the Joining. She knew how it felt to be changed irrevocably by the taint, how utterly hopeless and isolating and dreadful it was to know that your life was now forever bound to the vilest of corruptions. And yet she had avoided him. What could she say? Would he even want to talk to her? Did he hate her for what she'd done to him – would he have preferred that she'd simply put a blade in his heart and been done with it?

Oh, sod all this mewling indecision – she was starting to feel like Alistair. She had to speak to Loghain _sometime_. It might as well be now. With a bold hand, she turned the door handle and strode into the room – to the sight of Loghain, clad only in his breeches, wrapping a bandage around his arm.

"Oh," Moira bleated, face reddening. "I'm sorry – I should have knocked."

He turned halfway to face her, arching a supremely wry eyebrow. "Yes, you should have."

"Um." She should have just walked away immediately, but since she hadn't, she felt it would be worse to leave now without speaking a word – and yet, whatever words she'd meant for him had momentarily vacated her brain as she was confronted with the sight of her once-nemesis bereft of his mighty armor and clad only in a pair of workmanlike breeches.

"I just… wanted to see how you were feeling," she managed. "The Joining is rather unpleasant."

"That is putting it quite mildly." She noticed that the wound he wrapped, while bloody, was nevertheless fairly superficial, and she could not help but survey the rest of him as he stood there before her. He looked none the worse for wear, and certainly not as though he'd just fought a duel not six hours ago.

"Am I then to take this as concern for my well-being? I find that difficult to believe." He had returned his attention to his bandage and refused to look at her, and her irritation mounted.

"I was not a willing participant in the Joining, either," she snapped. "Did you think I wanted to be a Grey Warden any more than you did? Did you think I had more choice in the matter than you? I assure you, I did not."

"Then I can only conclude that you believed this to be a more fitting punishment for me than a swift death," he said. "Congratulations, Warden. You have won the day, and I will submit to your command. More than this I do not believe I owe."

"I should have thought that the chance to continue fighting for Ferelden would be welcomed by you," she retorted angrily. "But perhaps I was wrong about you, in which case, I am sorry for depriving you of your martyr's death."

"Do not attempt to draw me out with insinuations of cowardice, Warden. I have nothing I need to prove to you or anyone else. I know what I have done for my country."

"So do I – you plunged it into civil war!"

"Enough!" he roared, ripping away the end of the bandage and tying it off with a hasty jerk. "If you have intruded on my privacy to further hector me with your moralizing, then your presence is most unwelcome. I will follow you into battle, because I have sworn to do this. But I do not owe you my penance."

"I did not come seeking your penance," she said hotly. This had gone pear-shaped rather quickly, just as the conversation with her friends had. Clearly, nothing was going to go right today. "You may believe it or not, but I did come to you out of concern. The Joining is an impossibly lonely and terrible thing, and while I had the benefit of Alistair to help me come to terms with it, you have no one. No one other than me. So here I am."

He looked at her askance at this, his skepticism written plain across his face. "And what comfort do you presume to bring me? I have survived, and I am not otherwise injured. Whether or not this is the fate I would have chosen for myself is entirely irrelevant, as my freedom to choose my own fate ended when I submitted to your mercy."

She looked at him, standing there imperiously before her, the bandage on his arm the only outward indication of any injury. He was, she had to admit approvingly, in fine shape for a man of his years – for a man of any years, really. Which begged the question…

"Why _did_ you submit to my mercy?"

He frowned, and, becoming aware of her scrutiny, turned his back to her and walked over to stand against the bookshelves, pretending to peruse the titles on display. "What a foolish question. Because you had beaten me, and because I wanted to take the time to gather myself so I could die on my feet."

"I beat you, and yet here you stand before me, virtually unharmed," she countered. She could see her point hit home; the muscles on his back rippled as he stiffened in response to her words. "Had you wanted to continue the fight, you no doubt could have. I see no debilitating injury that necessitated your capitulation. And yet you did capitulate. Why is that?"

"I told you – "

"And I don't believe you," she shot back. "Come now, Teryn Loghain. You are a warrior of many years and many more battles than I. I do not believe that I bested you so easily."

"You underestimate yourself," he said baldly. "I told you that you possess a strength I have not seen since Maric died. Did you imagine that my words were empty flattery? I do not flatter, Warden."

Despite herself, she felt a warm glow of satisfaction at his words. "Then I appreciate your praise, but nevertheless, it is plain to me that I did not defeat you as decisively as you claim. And so I am left with a conundrum – a man who has chosen, for whatever reasons, to submit himself to my authority, and yet who will not accept my offer of – " She broke off at once. She could not, in honesty, say "friendship" – such a word was far too intimate to describe whatever it was she felt for Loghain. What _was_ she offering him, exactly?

"Camaraderie," she finally supplied, lamely.

"Camaraderie?" His voice, to her chagrin, sounded amused. "Is that what this is?" He left the question hanging, but she did not answer it, partly because she could not and partly because she did not want to allow him to continue deflecting the conversation.

"Very well then, Warden," he said at last when it was clear no answer from her was forthcoming. "If you wish me to acknowledge that we are of shared circumstances because of our poisoned blood, then I will do so. It is true, at any rate. If, however, you are seeking a… companion to replace your misbegotten Alistair, then I am afraid I must disappoint you in that regard."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" she said hotly. "Are you insinuating –"

"I was insinuating nothing, Warden." He turned around to face her, and she was irritated to see a ghost of a smirk on his face. "But your reaction speaks volumes."

"There was nothing between Alistair and me!" she exclaimed. "Nothing beyond friendship. I find such an accusation petty and beneath you."

"Interesting." The wry arched eyebrow reappeared. "I would imagine that there is very little that you would find beneath me. It is curious that you apparently believe me capable of some standards of decent conduct. And I would like to reiterate that I _made_ no such accusation. I merely meant that if you wish for me to seamlessly replace your lost friendship with Maric's wayward bastard, then I have no interest in doing so. That you assumed something more lurid speaks far more to your feelings than to mine."

Maker, what an infuriating man. "Well, there is nothing lurid about my feelings for Alistair, I assure you. And yes, he _was_ my friend. But that does not mean I am not angry with him for deserting me."

"Yes, the man Eamon would have crowned showed his true colors today, didn't he? I would hope, at least, that you recognize that, whatever your feelings for me, Anora makes for a far superior monarch."

"Of course I recognize that," she snapped. "That is why I supported her claim over Alistair's. Alistair is… a good man. But he is not king material. He knew it and I knew it, even if Eamon was in denial."

"Eamon was not in denial, he was seizing an opportunity!" Loghain retorted. "Who do you think would have truly been ruling Ferelden if your boy Warden had taken the throne? To whom would Alistair have run for advice every time a decision more complicated than what to eat for breakfast arose? Why, to his beloved Uncle Eamon, of course."

"And that is better than you ruling from the shadows as Anora's 'regent?' You had your own daughter imprisoned, for Maker's sake! In that vile bastard Howe's mansion!"

"Anora told you that, did she?" Loghain, for the first time, seemed troubled. "It is true that perhaps I… mishandled her. She has always been a wilful one, and Maker knows she can manipulate just about anyone to get what she wants, as she so cleverly did with you. But if you think I would have harmed my own daughter, then you are grievously mistaken."

"Then why was she at Howe's estate? Surely even you knew what a vicious brute the man was!"

"I was trying to protect her from my enemies! There was no doubt in my mind that those who sought to undermine me would not hesitate to harm her if they found the opportunity to do so. Howe would never have touched her. He would have known better than to provoke my wrath so blatantly. I would have destroyed him." Moira knew, from the vehemence of his tone, that he spoke the truth.

"And all the other people Howe hurt and destroyed? They were just collateral damage?" Even though it was Loghain who stood before her, half-dressed, it was she who felt dangerously vulnerable and exposed. This conversation was striking far too close to home, and yet she had said too much to calmly extricate herself now.

"Howe's sins are his to answer for," Loghain said brusquely, as he began to realize where their dialogue would inevitably lead. "He offered me his support, and I took it. I did not interfere in the administration of his arling – that was his business."

"That's it?" She knew, _knew_ that picking at this scab would lead to nowhere good, for either of them, but the words came pouring out anyway. "You knew – even before Ostagar – what he'd done to my family! And you accepted his support anyway!"

He stared hard at her, silent for long moments. Then, finally: "If you are suggesting that I played a role in Howe's takeover of Highever, then you are wrong. I knew nothing of Howe's plans. But once Cailan had decided to throw himself on the pyre in a foolish suicide charge, I could not afford to alienate him. Howe commanded vast tracts of land and fielded many soldiers for Ferelden's armies. I had to consolidate whatever allies I could, to avoid tearing the country apart."

"Yes, well, you did a bang-up job of that, didn't you?" she said bitterly. "And now my family is dead and gone and I have nothing." Oh, Maker, she hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Once more he looked at her for some long moments before speaking. "I did not kill your family," he said at last. "When Howe came to me, he presented evidence that your father had been treating with Orlais, plotting to sell our country out from beneath us. The documents were stamped with the Teryn of Highever's personal seal. I… do not now know if they were legitimate, or forgeries. It hardly matters now, at any rate, as you have taken your vengeance on Howe for his deeds. But know this: I would die before I saw Orlais take back even one acre of Ferelden soil. I would most certainly kill before I allowed such a thing to happen. Everything I have ever done was to protect my country."

Moira stared, dumbstruck. This was the first she'd heard of any Orlesian plot to regain influence in Ferelden, outside the vivid imaginings of Loghain himself; and certainly the first she'd ever heard of her _father_ being involved in anything remotely treasonable. Her dumbfoundedness quickly gave way to anger.

"My father was no traitor! He was a loyal subject of the king! How dare you – _how dare you_ try to justify Howe's treachery with such a base accusation!"

"I am trying to justify nothing," he grated. "I am telling you what happened. You may do whatever you wish with the information. I have no incentive to lie to you now."

"Where are these 'documents'?" she demanded. "I want to see them. You couldn't have known my father's handwriting as well as I do – I need to see them! Clearly Howe stole my father's seal after he sacked Highever and composed these false 'documents' for your benefit –"

"Warden, enough." He did not yell back at her; his voice was oddly subdued. "I imagine the documents are with the rest of my correspondence in the Royal Palace, but they will not remain there for long, now that I am… no longer in residence. But I can see no good coming from this. If the documents are forgeries, then it is plain Howe murdered your family without justification and lied about his motives to ingratiate himself to me. You have since exacted your retribution upon him for this. But if the documents are genuine, then you will have discovered that your father was indeed planning to betray his homeland for Orlesian gold. It seems to me that you have much to lose and nothing to gain from this. I do not think it wise. Let the dead lie, Warden."

Moira did not know what made her angrier: that he was so calmly discussing her parents' murder and alleged treason, or that he was absolutely correct in his judgment, and she knew it.

"Very well," she said tightly. "Keep your 'secret documents.' But I want them destroyed, and so help me, if you ever speak of them to the Bannorn – "

He interrupted her with a harsh bark of a laugh. "That is hardly a concern, as I am not likely to ever be invited to address the Bannorn again. But, if it would bring you peace of mind, then I will ask Anora to deliver my personal documents to me before we depart Denerim tomorrow. I will even allow you to review them yourself, though I must reiterate that I think it a poor idea and unlikely to bring you the peace you seek."

She stared at him in confusion. Was Loghain Mac Tir offering to do her a personal favour for no apparent personal gain of his own?

"I… thank you," she blurted. "Why?"

"Because until you've seen the damned papers, they will be gnawing at the back of your mind like a mabari with a bone," he said. "And you cannot afford any distractions before we join the battle with the darkspawn."

"Oh." She was angry with herself for feeling so disappointed. Had she really expected selfless altruism from him? "Well then. I will review them once we make camp tomorrow." The implications of the documents sent her mind reeling, and she suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. She needed to be alone, before her careful façade of military control fell away entirely.

"Then I will bid you good night. We march from Denerim at dawn." She turned to leave his room, and was halfway out the door before she remembered, from her first night as a Grey Warden…

"You'll have dreams," she blurted out to him, turning in the doorway to face him again. "Nightmares. It's the taint, working its way into your blood. It gives you a connection to the darkspawn, and you can hear them in your dreams. If you're really unlucky, you might even see the archdemon."

Again with the arched eyebrow. "I am certain I can handle unpleasant dreams," he said dryly.

"You don't know what an unpleasant dream is until you've had a Grey Warden dream," she said. "I just… wanted you to know. So you don't wake up the way I did after my first night as a Warden. No one warned me."

Something seemed to waver in his eyes, some emotion other than wry sarcasm that tentatively struggled to emerge from behind his mask of indifference, but then it was gone, and Moira wondered if she was just imagining things.

"Then thank you for the warning," he said briskly. "Now I must ask you to allow me to finish undressing in peace. We have few enough hours left for sleep, and a long march ahead of us."

"Right." She turned again for the door, and again hesitated. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you survived the Joining." Unwilling to see what reaction _that_ statement garnered, she quickly fled and closed the door behind her.

In her own bedroom that night, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She had entered that advanced state of exhaustion that made sleep untenable, and the events of the day weighed her down like an anchor. The Landsmeet, and the fateful duel; Alistair's rage at her decision to spare Loghain and his desertion; her companions' near-universal disapproval of her choice to enlist their once mortal foe into their ranks; her acrimonious sparring with Loghain and his revelation of Howe's spiteful allegations against her father. All were bitter pills to swallow, but, surprisingly, she found herself most troubled by Alistair. Her anger had burned itself out, to be gradually replaced by a simmering resentment. He had so blithely told her on so many occasions that he didn't like being in charge, didn't like making decisions, and wanted to follow her lead. Did he buggering well think _she_ wanted to be the one on whose shoulders the fate of the world rested? He was the one who had thought being a Grey Warden was a dream come true and an escape from his dreary life in the Chantry – and yet he had abdicated his vocation in a fit of pique because she had failed to deliver him blood vengeance for Duncan, even though Loghain had not put his blade to the man himself. And now she was alone, facing a hopeless battle against a darkspawn horde not seen on Thedas in centuries, and her only real comrade was the man who had been trying, up until about eight hours before, to kill her.

For the first time since the night Highever fell to Howe's thugs, she rolled over against her pillow and allowed herself to cry.


	3. The Price of Freedom

For the first time in her life, Moira was disappointed that there were no darkspawn to fight.

The march from Denerim was hot, dry, and uneventful, and as they made camp, she found herself wishing that there had been a nice, bracing battle to take her companions' minds off of the events of the Landsmeet. It was plain that they resented and despised Loghain to the last man, and Moira had to wonder just how much of that venom had bled over into their opinions of her. Even the party members who ordinarily had little use for human politics were plainly displeased. Oghren, mumbling incoherently between indiscreet swigs from his flask, had offered his opinion about the fate that "sodding traitors" deserved. Zevran, meanwhile, had been unusually quiet, his usual jibes and japes either muted or absent – which Moira took as a sign of his disapproval.

Her other friends were even worse. Wynne made her censure clearly known, and every time Moira tried to make eye contact with her, she looked away hastily, always finding something trivial with which to busy herself. Leliana was not nearly so rude, but she had an air of sadness about her, and the way she looked at Moira – as if she were disappointed in her – was almost worse than Wynne's stark displeasure. And, of course, Alistair was gone, and she would never be able to talk to him about any of her troubles again.

As they set up camp, she found herself growing ever more resentful of her companions for their lack of support. The Landsmeet was supposed to have brought Ferelden together, united under one banner, once and for all; and yet for all that it had been resolved, her camp felt more fractious than ever. Feeling broody, she took out her knife and began dressing the rabbit that had wandered into her snare, taking solace in the simple, repetitive motions. She was so engrossed in the process that she did not notice anyone approaching her until a shadow blotted out the glow from the fire. She looked up, startled, to see Loghain standing over her, holding a small satchel.

"I believe these are of interest to you," he said, holding it out for her. _The documents from Highever_.

"Maker! You actually – I mean, thank you," she said, cursing herself for her fumbling.

"You sound surprised that I brought them to you. Did you not believe I would be true to my word?" He scowled, thrusting the satchel towards her as if eager to be rid of it. "I must reiterate that this curiosity of yours is foolish in the extreme. Your parents have been avenged, and, assuming you survive the battle with the archdemon, Highever will no doubt be returned to your family once the Blight is over. Whether these missives are genuine or not is now irrelevant."

She glared at him as she grasped the satchel and withdrew the stack of bound correspondence from within. "My family's good name is not irrelevant!"

"Your family's good name is not in doubt. That is what I am attempting to impress upon you, to no avail, it seems. So be it, then. I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for." With that, he stalked away, leaving her to wonder how it was possible for a man to be so utterly unpleasant even while being ostensibly helpful.

Well, if Loghain wanted to snarl around the camp and glower at the others in his leisure time, then by all means, he was free to do so. Unable to wait any longer, she eagerly untied the string binding the letters and took them out to read.

The first one was a short, simple letter addressed to her father, and dated a month before the fall of Highever:

_Bryce,_

_Per our earlier discussion, I think the time has come to make our overtures, and sooner rather than later. You know the Bannorn as well as I do; they are a contentious lot at the best of times, and downright mutinous at the worst. If the situation continues unchanged much longer, then we will no longer be in a favorable position to wring concessions – that is why I have decided to travel to Orlais next month, rather than waiting until after Summerday. I would be honored if you would accompany me – I wish to portray Ferelden's nobility as a united front, and your presence as a teryn would bolster our credibility immeasurably. I know you have had your reservations in the past, but you know as well as I do that as long as the king lacks an heir, the stability of the throne of Calenhad is in doubt. You also know that we will not be able to address this issue to any satisfaction at the Landsmeet – that old war horse Loghain still commands sufficient respect among many of those who recall the occupation, and he will protect his daughter's position to the end, even if it means sacrificing the Theirin line to do so. He can also be reliably counted upon to rally the troops at the merest mention of Orlais, and while I sympathize to a certain extent with his reluctance, after thirty years of peace, his paranoia has descended into irrationality. I dislike all this subterfuge, but what I mean to do is ultimately in the best interests of Ferelden, and if that means circumventing the Landsmeet, then so be it. You need not worry about Cailan; he has rebuffed me in the past, but I believe he is coming around. All the more reason for us to move now, before he has a chance to change his mind. _

_Let me know as soon as you are able. As always, give my regards to your lovely teryna and your children. Perhaps we will even find a suitable husband for that fiery daughter of yours in Orlais – I can certainly attest to the benefits of taking an Orlesian for a spouse, after all!_

_Your humble friend, &c.,_

_Eamon_

She frowned at the paper, her thoughts churning. She was not familiar with Arl Eamon's handwriting, and she could not therefore tell if this letter was a forgery, but if true, she was unsure what to think. It was clear that Eamon had arranged some sort of meeting with the Orlesians, though to what precise end was unclear – some sort of alliance, judging from the tenor of the letter. The references to Anora were plain – she _had_ known, from overhearing drawing room gossip at Highever, that many of the nobles were beginning to believe the queen was barren, and should be set aside so that Cailan could produce an heir to the throne. She had always assumed that if that had happened, he would merely take a new wife from the ranks of the many young unmarried Ferelden noblewomen, but Eamon seemed to be suggesting an alliance with an Orlesian noblewoman instead. And what was this about marrying _her_ off to some Orlesian noble? She cringed at the thought. She'd found Isolde shallow, foolish, and grating, and she could hardly imagine that Orlesian noblemen were any better.

She smothered a wry smile. _Now I'm starting to sound like Loghain_.

Hesitantly, she withdrew the next paper from the stack, and saw that it was her father's reply, dated some two weeks later – just a fortnight before the massacre at Highever. If this was indeed his genuine reply, then it was clear he hadn't found the time to send the letter with a courier to Redcliffe, which explained why Howe had found it at Highever. She scanned the manuscript quickly. If it was a forgery, it was a damned good one – the words sloped to the right, and the _t_'s were crossed asymmetrically. It had to be her father's elegant, precise handwriting which flowed across the page – it was vanishingly unlikely that anyone else could have penned such a precise replica. Moira's hands began to tremble slightly. She remembered Loghain's stern warning – _if the documents are genuine, then you will have discovered that your father was indeed planning to betray his homeland for Orlesian gold_. _It seems to me that you have much to lose and nothing to gain from this_. Damn and blast him, he'd been right – she should have refused to look at them, should have been content in her belief that they must have been forgeries produced by Howe to discredit her father and justify his own treachery. But it was too late to go back now, and, swallowing her fear, she read on.

_Arl Eamon,_

_I must admit to a great deal of trepidation regarding this venture, particularly in light of recent tensions along the border. It is not that I believe what you say to be without sense – on the contrary, I think you are accurate in your reckoning, both regarding the necessity of producing an heir, and of forging closer ties with Orlais, preferably on our own terms. But I dislike the idea of going behind the backs of the Landsmeet. Loghain can certainly be a disagreeable curmudgeon, but he remains the only other teryn in the land – his will, and those of his vassals and allies, cannot be dismissed so blithely. But, of course, you are entirely correct that he will never willingly support any overtures, no matter how lukewarm, to Orlais, nor would he allow Anora to be dispossessed without a fight. Nevertheless, I feel that we cannot make any decision – particularly one so momentous – without the Landsmeet's approval. _

_With that in mind, I will accompany you to Orlais, assuming you can provide me with assurances that you have the King's full support in this endeavour. You are correct that presenting a united front will strengthen our negotiations – but I will only undertake such a mission if I know that it is his will. Couslands have always served at the pleasure of the king, and I would not undermine his authority in this, or any other, matter. However, it appears as though any trip we might make shall be delayed anyhow – I have received news of the darkspawn massing in the Korcari Wilds, and I believe the King will call his armies to go and meet the threat. If that is the case, then Fergus and I shall certainly take our forces to join him. Perhaps I can discuss the issue at length with him there, and once the darkspawn have been dealt with, we can proceed, depending upon the King's grace, of course._

_I have conveyed your felicitations to my family, and likewise hope you will convey mine to Isolde and young Connor. I must implore you, however, to never allow my Moira to hear you speak of setting her up with an arranged match, let alone one to a foreigner – she is quite determined to follow her own path in life, and woe betide anyone who tries to advise her otherwise! Ah, I can hardly complain – she is entirely like her mother in that regard, and in that I can find no fault._

_We shall speak soon. Until then, walk in the Light, my friend._

_Bryce_

The words slowly began to blur together, and Moira remembered that she was sitting out in the open just in time to stifle a sob. Wiping hurriedly at her eyes, she dashed the tears away, sending droplets down upon the parchment and causing the ink to run across the page in spidery rivulets, blurring the words until they were indecipherable. _Oh, Father. Maker keep you and Mother at His side_. The pain of losing her parents was a wound that had, slowly but gradually, begun to knit together; now it was ripped open anew, and she felt her loss as keenly as she had that first, awful night.

She stood, ignoring the curious gazes from the others, who – thank the Maker for small mercies – sensed her distress and were respectful enough to keep their distance. Without a second thought, she threw the letters into the fire, watching through a veil of tears as they curled into the flames and were quickly reduced to ashes. Whatever those letters proclaimed, whatever significance they had, at least now no one else would ever know of them.

And what significance, exactly, _did_ they have? Loghain had told her that the documents exposed her father's treachery, his plot to sell Ferelden's honor for Orlesian gold. But all he'd agreed to do was meet with some Orlesian delegates at Arl Eamon's behest – and then only with the assurances that he was acting on behalf of the king! Her anger began to mount as she recalled his conviction – for _those_ letters, he was willing to believe that her father was a traitor, and therefore felt justified in his alliance with that murderous fiend Howe? But really, what more had she expected from the regicide himself?

Furious, she stormed away from the campfire and into the woods, needing desperately to be alone, away from all the concerned eyes trying not to glance her way. She thrashed through the underbrush until she found a small clearing, and, at last alone, she proceeded to pace back and forth in agitation, willing herself to calm down until she had mastered her emotions enough to return to the others. She snarled a series of curses, most of them directed at Loghain – perhaps Alistair had been right after all, and Loghain did not truly deserve to join her as a Grey Warden, and –

"I take it, from your reaction, that you believe the documents to be genuine. I warned you, did I not? I warned you that you stood only to lose from reading those letters, and yet you insisted on doing so." His commanding, gruff voice cut through her thoughts, and she started in shock as he emerged into the clearing to join her, the moonlight glinting off his silver armor. How long had he been there? Long enough to overhear some choice remarks regarding his character and parentage, no doubt.

"You son of a bitch!" She strode towards him, glaring into his impassive icy blue eyes. "You told me those letters exposed my father's treachery! That he was planning to sell out Ferelden to Orlais! They prove nothing of the kind!"

"Warden, I understand your loyalty to your father," he grated. "But you have now read the letters for yourself, and you cannot deny his own words! He intended to meet with Orlesian nobles to decide the fate of Ferelden – what, pray tell, is that, if not treason?"

"He didn't – all he planned to do was talk!" she burst.

"Talk? How does one 'talk' to a wolf at his doorstep, I wonder? Does he think to convince the wolf not to eat him, if he asks nicely enough? Or perhaps he knows that the wolf is a ravening beast which will not leave without its tribute, and so he prepares a sacrifice in order to sate its bloodlust?"

"A ravening beast looking to sate its bloodlust?" She stared hard at Loghain, shaking her head slowly. "Sweet Maker, listen to yourself! Eamon was right – your paranoia about Orlais _is _irrational!"

"You were not there!" he bellowed. "You did not live through the occupation! I did! You did not bear witness to the atrocities and barbarisms their chevaliers and painted lords inflicted upon our people! I did! You would presume to lecture me about Orlais when you know _nothing_ of what it is capable?"

"You cannot blame all Orlesians for the occupation! You know Leliana, and Riordan – they are hardly 'ravening beasts!' You wouldn't even _be_ here were it not for Riordan! You have to let go of the past!"

"Let go of the past?" His voice was full of incredulity and disgust. "We can no more 'let go of the past' than we can shed our skins. The past is always with us. It is in our blood and in our bones and in every beat of our hearts."

She struggled to respond to that, to his forthright certainty, and found she could not understand it at all.

He sighed irritably. "You think me an old, mad fool, fighting a battle that has long since been won. But you are wrong. Well, perhaps you are right that I am an old, mad fool – but the battle against Orlais is not won. It will never be 'won.' Not as long as the Masked Empire still hungers for Ferelden's crops to fill its belly and Ferelden's soldiers to fight its wars. The price of our freedom is eternal vigilance. I have never forgotten that, nor will I ever. Nor will I apologize for moving against those who would seek to forget."

"My father didn't forget," she said quietly. "You read his letter – he would have done nothing without the Landsmeet's approval, or the support of the king! Whatever you may think of his plans to travel to Orlais, he was not a traitor!"

He sighed. "It is plain enough that your father was attempting, somewhat, to rein in Eamon's impulses," he admitted. "But it matters naught, as Howe had already butchered him before I knew of any of this. I admit that when Howe presented these letters to me, I… found myself trusting him, in retrospect, more than I should have."

She wanted to rage at him, to howl at him for ever having thought for even a moment that Howe was worthy of trust, but found that she could not. Perhaps his somewhat conciliatory tone had ameliorated her anger, or perhaps it had just burned itself out, like a white-hot burst of flame, to be replaced by a hollow melancholy.

"You were not the first to be deceived by Rendon Howe," she said bitterly. "He was only able to slaughter my family because he and his soldiers were already safely inside our keep. My father trusted him and he paid for that trust with his life."

"A bitter price," Loghain agreed. "And yet here we stand, despite my numerous attempts on your life. Why did you spare me? You could have had me executed. I would have done, in your place. Perhaps you hoped I would perish in your Grey Warden ritual? You must be sorely disappointed that I refuse to die. What is it you want from me, Warden?"

It was a question she had been asking herself since that fateful moment at the Landsmeet. Her gaze met his in the moonlight, and, as usual, whatever emotions or thoughts he concealed behind those piercing pale blue eyes remained hidden from her view.

"I'm offering you a second chance. I want you to take it," she said finally. "You were a hero to all Ferelden, once. Perhaps you can be again, if you help me end this Blight."

He looked at her long and hard, and she felt as besieged by his penetrating gaze as she ever had by the blades and arrows of her foes.

Finally, he broke the silence with a snort of disdain. "Sentimental nonsense," he said, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his gruff tone, and Moira supposed that had to count for something. "But nevertheless, I am a man who has always believed in taking whatever chances fate might offer." He paused, as if wanting to say more, but then seemed to abruptly change his mind.

"Come," he said suddenly, in that imperious tone of his that brooked no debate. "We should head back to camp. I imagine your friends are preparing to organize a search party, for fear that I have slipped a knife between your ribs."

The camp was quiet, her friends scattered about around the fire or in their tents, but she allowed herself a private chuckle of amusement as she saw Zevran, Leliana, and Wynne visibly relax their postures as she came out of the woods. Perhaps Loghain's jibe had not been far from the truth.

A maelstrom of thoughts swirled through her as she headed back to the fire, thinking on the conversation she'd just shared with Loghain. He had been right – reading her father's missives had only brought her more questions and no answers. She _did_ agree with Eamon that Loghain was paranoid and irrational regarding Orlais, but… it was true she had not lived through the occupation herself. Her father had spoken of it sparingly, and only in the vaguest of manners, telling her that it had been a "dark time for them all."

She sighed irritably – there was no use ruminating over the past. The Orlesians were gone, and her father and Howe were dead. All that stood before them now was the Blight, Maker help them all.

She resumed her seat before the fire, recalling that she had skinned a rabbit for supper, but Loghain had interrupted her before she'd been able to cook it on the spit. So where was it? She looked all around, to no avail – until she spotted a pair of very guilty eyes peering at her from a few paces away.

"Dane!" she scolded indignantly. Her mabari hound was the absolute picture of remorse, his head tucked shyly between his outstretched paws, tail wagging guiltily. "You ate my rabbit, didn't you?"

A low, slow whine confirmed her hypothesis. "What do you mean, it was just laying there? I was planning to come back for it, you know!" She glared at him until, unable to bear his mistress's scolding, he rose and trotted over to her, laying his head on her lap and giving her a soft, apologetic snuffle.

"Yes, well, you _should_ be sorry! That was _my_ supper, you hairy beast! You already _had_ yours! And don't think those gooey eyes will get you out of this one. What a bad boy you are!" Another long, sad whine.

"You can hardly chasten a dog for being a dog, Warden." Loghain's voice appeared suddenly behind her, sounding (to her considerable annoyance) rather amused. He appeared to her left, taking a seat near the fire as he rummaged through a travel pack, pulling out a wrapped bundle which turned out to be a wedge of cheese and some purloined roast from the palace.

Dane, his attempts at earning his mistress's forgiveness forgotten, appeared at once at Loghain's side, his eyes bright as he stared soulfully at the new source of food. Loghain shot him a look of wry amusement, and Moira realized that this was the first time she'd ever seen the taciturn man without his customary mask of hard indifference.

"Oh no, you're not getting any of this, I'm afraid," he chided gently, though he did spare a hand to scratch Dane behind the ears. "You've had quite enough already, it seems! I don't think your mistress would be very pleased if I rewarded you for stealing her supper." With a whine of disappointment, Dane sat down next to Loghain, abandoning his quest for extra scraps. He sniffed at Loghain's hand, tentatively at first, then, with a cheerful snort, he began to bestow affectionate licks. With a deep chuckle, Loghain allowed the dog to perform his greeting, and when Dane was done, resumed idly stroking the dog's head as he bit into his cheese.

Moira watched the scene with growing fascination. Her other companions' attitudes towards Dane had ranged from amusement to toleration, and he – being a good dog, and obedient to her every wish – tolerated them in turn, but he had taken to none of them the way he had just taken to Loghain. Mabari hounds were renowned across Thedas not just for their ferocity in battle and their utter devotion to their masters, but also for their remarkable intelligence – Moira had, in her younger days, ruled out many fellow youths as potential friends or suitors based solely on Dane's reaction. That he had taken so readily to the man she trusted _least_ in the entire camp gave her considerable food for thought.

"He likes you," she said at last. "You're lucky – he doesn't take to very many people that eagerly. I think he can barely restrain himself from growling at Morrigan, actually."

Loghain snorted in amusement. "That makes two of us." Moira could not help but snigger in response to _that_. Loghain actually smiled, and she again found herself wondering at the change in him, when he wasn't scowling and snarling and ranting about Orlesian treachery.

"I had a mabari, once," he said, and from the faraway sound of his voice, she knew that if she interrupted him, for any reason, the spell would be broken, and so she remained silent. "Her name was Adalla. We found her in the woodshed one night, when she was just a pup. She had the most beautiful chestnut brown coat, the most intelligent, understanding eyes. My mother said she was a gift from the Maker. And she was… she really was." Dane let out a happy little woof of agreement, but Moira was utterly still, afraid that even the slightest movement would tear Loghain from his reverie.

"We grew up together, she and I. She never left my side, not once. Ten years I had her, before she was taken away." Dane cocked his head inquisitively, emitting a small whine of confusion. "An Orlesian lordling came to our farm and took her from us. You see, he wanted to mix the blood of our noble mabari with his frail, wasp-waisted game hounds, which were bred for looks, not intelligence. I tried to keep her, but there was little I could do to stop the Orlesian. I wasn't even a man yet. You can imagine what it was like for her – being torn away from her family, from the boy she was bonded to." Dane gave a long, mournful cry. Moira recognized the dampness brimming at the corners of her eyes, but she dared not move to wipe them away.

"It was a year before we saw her again. The Orlesians finally returned her – well, when I say 'returned,' I mean that they pushed her out of the back of their moving wagon in front of our farm. She was skin and bone, and still carried the scars from where their pronged collars bit into her neck." His voice, which had grown angry and bitter, again became subdued as he lost himself in the memories. "She never was the same. She passed away a week later, with her head in my lap. I like to think at least that she died happy." Dane howled softly, and nudged his nose into Loghain's hand. Moira could no longer ignore the tears running down her cheeks, so she reached up to swipe them away, sniffling. The sound abruptly tore Loghain out of his reminiscences, and he started, his gaze snapping over towards her in surprise, and for a moment he scowled savagely at her, as if furious with her for eavesdropping on such intimate memories. But then his expression softened, and, with a sigh, he turned away, looking steadfastly down at Dane as he scratched behind the dog's ears.

"That's horrible," she said softly. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

He scoffed, but there was no malice in it. "Of course not, how could you? I've never told anyone that story. Not even Maric." With a final caress of Dane's head, he stood up, wrapping the cloth around the remainder of his food. "But I do believe we've stirred up enough ghosts for one night. Here," he said, handing her the wrapped cheese and roast. "Next time, you should be more careful with your food when there's a hungry mabari around."

She took the proffered food with a perplexed frown. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"What?" he asked irritably. "Giving you food? I should have thought that was obvious."

"Not just that," she said. "Being… well, not _nice_, exactly, but… considerate… of me."

He glared down at her, his countenance plainly vexed – though there was another emotion there that she could not quite define. "I should hardly call sharing cold leftover palace roast with you an act of consideration worthy of note. Or is it that you think me such a monster that even the most basic of courtesies is unexpected?"

She was taken aback by that. "I don't think you're a monster," she immediately protested, even though she knew in her heart that there had been times, in the past few weeks, that she had thought so ill of him as to make no substantial distinction.

To her surprise, he smiled, though it was more of a slight, barely perceptible quirking of his lips. "You are a very poor liar, you know," he said, his tone almost warm. "But it is kind of you to say, all the same." He turned, as if to walk away, but stopped short of the fire. "This… situation we are in – all of it can rightly be called my fault. I did what I thought was best at the time, though in retrospect, it has become clear to me that I made… many mistakes. Whether or not you will do any better remains to be seen. But if you can end the Blight and bring peace to Ferelden where I failed, then you have my solemn oath that I shall follow you to the very end. This I swear."

"I…" She had not expected such an unsolicited vow of loyalty, and was struck momentarily dumb. "Thank you. I am glad to have you, Loghain."

He laughed. "Well, we shall see how long that lasts," he said wryly. "Good night, Warden." With that, he walked away, towards his tent, leaving her alone with the fire, her dog, and her thoughts.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thank you to all of you who have read, reviewed, and followed this story! As we get further away from the Landsmeet, the dialogue will gradually become all original, but while we are still dealing with some of the 'canon' issues in the aftermath of Loghain's Joining, there will be a few pieces of dialogue you'll recognize from the game -specifically, in this chapter, Loghain's tale about his mabari hound. I thought the original conversation was so moving and poignant that I reproduced it here with minimal changes, but rest assured that Loghain and Moira will grow closer than canon allowed (damn you Bioware!). I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read, review, and favorite/follow this story - it means a lot!


	4. A Thing Both Kind and True

The next day's march had just gotten underway when Wynne at last decided to break her silence.

Moira saw her approaching out of the corner of her eye, and, mindful of the cool reception she'd received from the upright mage ever since the Landsmeet, she decided that it was best to let Wynne break the ice. Wynne fell into step beside her, and, after a few moments of silence, leaned in closer to Moira, careful to keep her voice low.

"You spent a great deal of time with Loghain last night." Her words were a barely-disguised accusation. "I admit, I was nervous when I saw him follow you into the woods. Are you certain you can trust him? You know what he did at Ostagar. If he would betray the king, I fail to see why he should not betray you too."

Moira suppressed an exasperated sigh. She had become close to Wynne in the preceding months; the kindly woman had become something of a surrogate mother to her, offering advice and comfort when she felt utterly alone and daunted by the task before her. She knew the old woman meant well, and she understood why Wynne, in particular, would despise Loghain for his actions at Ostagar; the mage had lost a great many friends at that ill-fated battle. Wynne certainly had every rational right to be concerned; how, then, could Moira possibly explain why she believed that concern to be misplaced?

"He won't betray me," she said. "I know you don't like him, Wynne –"

"Don't like him?" The mage no longer bothered to disguise her displeasure. "That is rather an understatement, don't you think? Surely _you_ can't 'like' him after everything he has done?"

"I didn't say I did," Moira replied testily. "But… I trust him. He gave me his vow," she said, realizing as she said the words that Wynne would not be so easily swayed.

"His vow?" Wynne repeated skeptically. "What is the word of a traitor worth, Moira?" Moira opened her mouth to retort, but Wynne shook her head and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "I am not trying to make things more difficult for you, believe it or not. I have made it clear that I do not agree with your decision to accept Loghain, but it was your decision to make, and I will abide by it, whether I like it or not. I only came to tell you to watch your back around him. The man knows no honor – he would not hesitate to stab you, stab us all, in the back, if he thought it would serve his agenda."

"Loghain's only agenda is to protect Ferelden," she said, unable to believe the words were actually coming from her own mouth. "He made some terrible mistakes, it is true, but he wants to end this Blight as much as I do. He is not like Howe."

Wynne stared at her as if she'd just turned into a hurlock. "You cannot seriously be defending him," she said, horrorstruck. "You were _there_! You saw what he did! You saw what he did to those elves in the alienage – " Abruptly, she stopped, and the way she stared at Moira broke the younger woman's heart – as if she, too, had betrayed the mage's trust.

"I am sorry, Moira, but I cannot approve of this," Wynne said gravely. "I will aid you in ending the Blight, but I cannot simply pretend that I can accept Loghain as you apparently have. I will never, ever forget what he did at Ostagar, nor what he has done since. If you insist on defending him in spite of all that, then we have no more to say to one another." Without a backwards glance, Wynne turned and stalked away, leaving Moira alone, with only the dust of the road and the soft keening of the wind to keep her company.

A deep melancholy welled within Moira, and even though her companions were not far behind her, she felt more isolated than she had since that dreadful flight from Highever all those months ago. She had already lost so much – and since sparing Loghain at the Landsmeet, she had also managed to lose two of her dearest friends. All for the sake of a man who had been her mortal enemy.

_You'd better be worth it_, she'd said to him in the Landsmeet chamber the night she'd dragged him off to submit to the Joining. Had he been? He'd cost her two relationships, and possibly more. And yet, she thought back to the oddly intimate moment they'd shared yesterday at the fire – his affinity with Dane, and his own heartbreaking story about the mabari he'd loved. In the darkness, she had even sensed that there might have been something there, between them – something of the 'camaraderie' that she had offered, and that he had so scornfully dismissed, the night of the Landsmeet – but perhaps that had just been a trick of the shadows.

She was aware, at once, of a presence immediately beside her, and she jumped involuntarily, her hand on the hilt of her sword as she whirled about to face the threat, only to find herself gazing into Zevran's bemused eyes.

"Maker's breath, Zevran, don't sneak up on me like that!" she chided, though in truth, she could never be angry at the winsome elf – and she was more than a little grateful for company to distract her from her own swirling thoughts.

"Ah, but you make it so easy, _mia bella_," he replied, suave as always. "You would make a very poor assassin."

"Then it's a good thing I've got a day job, isn't it," she retorted. "At least until the Blight is over, at any rate."

Zevran laughed, the sound as musical as ever. "Pithy as always, my dear Warden. It is my favorite thing about you. Well, my second favorite thing, behind your ravishing auburn tresses, your striking hazel eyes, and your impossibly toned legs. Truly, you should not hide such treasures beneath that unflattering armor. A finely-tailored set of Antivan leathers would be just the thing to properly showcase your innumerable assets."

"You know, after that exhaustive list of all your favorite things about me, I think my pithiness actually rates fairly low," she quipped. She had missed his banter – Zevran always seemed to know just how to cheer her up. "You're irrepressible, you know that, right?"

He laughed again. "You are not the first to tell me this. Perhaps it is _your_ favorite thing about me, no?"

"Well, it's right up there with your flowing blonde locks, your soulful eyes, and that lovely accent, anyway."

Zevran grasped his chest in faux agony. "Oh! You tease me so! You are truly the cruelest of mistresses, to so toy with my heart," he said dramatically.

"Are you sure it's your heart you're worried about?"

Zevran threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, you _are_ a singular woman." They enjoyed the familiar repartee and the much needed sense of levity it brought, but as their laughter faded, he turned to her with a serious mien.

"All jesting aside… I must admit to being a trifle concerned for you," he said quietly. "I observed your conversation with Wynne. Well, I did not hear it, but it was plain that it did not end well. And I must confess that I too harbor my doubts about accepting my former employer into our ranks."

"Your former employer?" she said. "I thought your employer was the Antivan Crows, and that whatever contract Loghain had taken was through them, not with you specifically?"

"That is true," he said. "And do not worry that I will feel compelled to, ah, 'finish the job' for him." She raised an eyebrow – that truly hadn't occurred to her, and now she wondered at why she was so willing to trust both an assassin and the man who'd hired him.

"Zevran, I accepted you into our company after you tried to kill me," she said bluntly. "I'm not sure why you are concerned that I should do the same for Loghain."

"But don't you see? I was merely the instrument of another's desire. I never personally wanted you dead. I did not even know you. The Crows tell me to kill, and I kill. It is never a personal vendetta. But Teryn Loghain?" He looked at her, and she could see the uncharacteristic worry in his eyes. "He is the one who paid the Crows to ensure that I was sent to kill you. That makes him rather more complicit in the plot than me, do you not agree?"

"I never said that he wasn't guilty of trying to kill me," she said, annoyed by how frequently she found herself apologizing for Loghain. "But he conceded defeat honorably at the Landsmeet, and he has sworn to follow me against the darkspawn. I trust him. I appreciate your concern, Zevran, but there is nothing to worry about."

"If you say so, _mia bella_," he said, but he sounded far from convinced. At least he didn't appear disgusted or upset with her, as Wynne had. "Well, rest assured that if he tries anything, he will not get far. Zevran will watch your back."

Moira smiled, grateful for the companionship of her loyal, if overly flirtatious, friend. At least she still _had_ a friend. "Thank you, Zevran. That means a lot to me."

"But of course. You need only call and I will answer." With a courtly bow, he disappeared behind her, no doubt to better keep an eye trained on Loghain for any hint of possible treachery.

Moira trekked on, lost in her thoughts. It had not escaped her how often she found herself championing not only Loghain's trustworthiness, but his essential character. She had told herself that she had spared him only for his usefulness as an ally, and that she neither trusted nor forgave him for his role in fomenting Ferelden's civil war. And yet, she'd had the opportunity to say exactly that to both Wynne and Zevran, and she had declined to do so. What was compelling her to come to his defense?

Dane trotted up to her, able as usual to sense his mistress's distress. He nudged her gauntleted hand with his nose, and she gave him an obliging scratch. "It's nice to know that I've got at least one person… well, dog… on my side no matter what," she murmured, to which Dane uttered a woof of agreement.

Suddenly, she felt a thrumming in her blood, like a hive of malicious insects buzzing inside her skull. A sense of vileness, of something deeply _wrong_, overwhelmed her. It could only mean one thing. She raised her hand, motioning for the party to halt. Looking behind her, she saw her companions regarding her with expressions that varied from wary to curious, knowing that she would have only called a halt for a good reason.

Her eyes met Loghain's, and she saw at once that he felt it too. He approached her, ignoring the resentful stares that followed him as he fell in beside her with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to leading from the front.

"Something foul stirs in my blood," he said without prelude. "It is the darkspawn corruption, isn't it?"

"Yes," she affirmed. "They are near. We can sense them through the taint – but so too can they sense us. Be ready."

He smirked, and she wondered how his small half-smiles could have such a profound affect on her. "I am always ready, Warden," he said laconically.

"Good," she said, smirking back. She unsheathed her sword, turning to address her companions. "The darkspawn are somewhere near us – be ready to engage at any moment." She heard Oghren's low, deep chuckle of delight – sometimes the dwarf's zest for battle bordered on the disturbing, but she had to admit that she'd far rather have him at her side than not.

"Stay with me," she instructed Loghain. "We will be able to sense them before the others can see them – soon we'll have a good idea of where they are coming from and how many there are."

"I did not realize Grey Wardens could seek out darkspawn with such precision," he said. "I can discern nothing specific – I merely feel a general impression of evil, for lack of a better word."

"It comes with time." She reflected on the first time she had sensed the darkspawn through her blood, the foul wickedness of their proximity permeating through her being, nearly overwhelming her with despair. "I could never sense them as well as Alistair could. The longer the taint festers within us, the more we become corrupted – and the better we can perceive them. Essentially, the taint is slowly turning us into darkspawn, bit by bit – our 'gift' and our curse all in one."

"How charming," he said drolly. "That detail is rather noticeably absent from the Grey Warden recruiting pitch. Though I suppose it's still marginally preferable to summary execution."

"Yes, there are a lot of details that are rather noticeably absent from the Grey Warden recruiting pitch, as I found out the hard way," she said, the old resentment bubbling up within her anew. She was bitterly reminded of how Duncan had conscripted her into the Wardens, wringing a promise from her dying father and giving her no choice in the matter – and he certainly hadn't bothered to fill her in on any of the nitty-gritty details, such as the poisoned chalice, or the taint, or the Calling. Ah yes – the ultimate fate of a Grey Warden was another detail she would have to share with Loghain sooner rather than later. But that would have to wait for another time. She could feel them coming, through the taint in her blood, the seething mass of evil spilling out from just beyond the hill ahead. Drawing her sword from its scabbard, she nodded at Loghain, and found herself reassured by his firm nod in response. He was clearly in his element, sword drawn and raised for battle, and she found herself grateful, as the darkspawn began to pour over the hill, that he was at her side.

An arrow, loosed from Leliana's tautly-strung bow, felled the hurlock at the head of the charge, and a gout of flame from Morrigan's staff burned through the ranks, sending more of the darkspawn shrieking to their doom. Then the main body of the force was amongst them, and Moira lost herself in the simple test of her battle skills. Her sword sang as she scythed through the foul demons, and she began to understand why Oghren lusted for battle as he did. Here, there were no politics, no personality clashes – only a pure test of her strength and resolve, her skill and prowess, against that of her foes.

She let out an exultant cry as her blade connected with the skull of a charging genlock, cleaving its head in two, before she noticed a small band of four hurlocks closing in on her, led by a mighty alpha hefting a massive two-handed battleaxe. She parried a violent blow with her shield as her blade thrust forward into the guts of the first hurlock, and she pivoted about to slice her sword through the neck of the second, decapitating it neatly. Then the massive hurlock leader was upon her, and she was barely able to raise her shield in time to catch a bone-shattering blow that would have hewn her cleanly in half. Staggering backwards from the force of the blow, she took note of the other hurlock raising its sword-arm, readying a killing strike – but before it could swing its weapon, Dane bounded forward with a howl of rage, bowling the hurlock over and proceeding to maul it with savage ferocity. She shifted her focus back to the alpha hurlock, which swung its mighty axe at her again, her swift parry catching the weapon just in time and rattling her sword-arm with the force of the blow. With a curse, she stumbled to the ground, her arm numb and tingling, and again she lifted her shield scarcely in time to block a savage strike from the war axe. The hurlock choked out a series of guttural, mocking grunts, and a burning hatred for the foul beast surged through Moira's blood. Off-balance and on her knees, she lunged forward, her blade sinking into the monster's leg, eliciting a bellow of rage. It lashed out with a savage kick and caught her in the shoulder, flinging her onto her back. With a howl of triumph, the hurlock raised its axe –

Only to drop the weapon from senseless fingers as a finely-wrought blade thrust through its chest from behind. The blade slid out with a jerk, and the alpha hurlock collapsed with a bloody gurgle, revealing to her the blood-soaked and battle-worn figure of Loghain Mac Tir, standing before her like a victorious god of war. She didn't think anyone had ever looked so incredible.

He approached her, sheathing his sword and slinging his shield across his back, and offered her a wordless hand. She took it, wondering dizzyingly that the man who'd tried to kill her in single combat mere days ago had now just saved her life. Truly the Maker moved in mysterious ways.

"My hero," she said wryly, as her eyes met his. He held her gaze, and a peculiar feeling percolated in the pit of her stomach as he held her eyes for perhaps a beat longer than was ordinary; but then he turned, breaking the spell and scoffing lightly.

"I hardly think I should be your hero for doing what anyone in this party would have done," he said. "I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"Well, I'm glad you were," she said, more sincerely. "Thank you, Loghain."

He frowned, as if preparing to deflect her gratitude with more sarcasm, but seemed to reconsider. "You are welcome," he said, relenting, as his face eased into an expression that was, if not expressly friendly, at least decidedly cordial.

Her shoulder ached dully, and her arm still tingled with residual numbness from the hurlock's axe-blow, but she was otherwise unharmed; a quick survey of her companions showed that they too were in one piece, though they all looked a fright, armor and weapons covered in blood, and some had begun to gingerly tend to wounds of varying severity. The road was littered with the bodies of fallen darkspawn, and, though her friends had emerged mostly unscathed, the day had grown long, and Moira knew that the best thing she could do now was find a place for them to rest, recover, and clean themselves before they resumed the long trek towards Redcliffe.

"We should find a suitable place to set up camp," she said, removing a gauntlet so she could wipe the blood from her face. "We'll tend to our wounds and rest up before setting out again tomorrow."

"Be nice to find a real tavern out here," Oghren grumbled. "It ain't that I don't have plenty of drink on hand, but I could go for a wench right about now. Since none of you ladies have been willing to take a tumble with ol' Oghren… though I should add that the offer is always open," he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as Morrigan made no attempt to hide her gag of disgust.

"Ah yes, wenches," Zevran waxed in a nostalgic tone. "Though I daresay, no tavern maiden could ever be so fair as these beautiful ladies at my side," he added, lips quirking in a knowing smile that evoked an exasperated sigh from Moira.

"While I hardly share the one-track mind of my two… colleagues… I must admit, 'twould be nice to spend the night in a bed for a change," Morrigan offered. Moira resisted the urge to point out that they had, only a few days ago, spent many nights in rather comfortable beds courtesy of Arl Eamon's hospitality.

"Ooo, yes!" Leliana chimed in, and Moira, still standing next to Loghain, sensed his body tauten like a bowstring upon hearing the Orlesian's strong accent. "A real bed, instead of the cold, hard ground!"

"For the love of the Maker, we are warriors!" Moira burst, exasperated. "Not pampered milksops!" But she had to admit that the thought of a hot bath, of washing the darkspawn filth from her skin and hair and armor and sword, _was_ appealing. As was a meal that didn't require her to catch, kill, and skin it.

They were on the Imperial Highway bordering the South Reach, a few good days' march from Lothering, but still too far north to worry about being overrun by the horde – the darkspawn they had just faced had clearly been a band of stragglers, or scouts. "I suppose we are not far from Dungate," she said, acquiescing. "It is merely a few miles down the road. There should be an inn there."

Her companions' spirits noticeably brightened as they resumed the march towards the little village, and she felt her own mood rise as well. A bed, a proper meal, and a nice bath was sounding better and better. Perhaps it would help her to clear her head after the chaotic past several days.

The village, fortunately, was situated north of the horde's current reach, and had thus been spared devastation, though the streets were deserted and most shops were shuttered up tight. The band of darkspawn that they had just slain had inexplicably failed to sack the village, for which she was thankful.

As they approached the village, the reason for the darkspawn reticence became clear: an imposing city wall, interspersed by watchtowers full of armored soldiers, rose into view as they crested the hill overlooking the village. A pair of ballista flanked the gates, ready to unleash hell on any who dared threaten the tiny settlement.

"Halt, there!" The gate guard called as Moira and her companions approached. "State your business, traveler."

"We are Grey Wardens marching towards Redcliffe to take up the battle with the darkspawn," she said without pretense. "We have only just dispatched a band of the fiends not five miles from your village. We would be grateful to for any rest and provisions you could spare."

The guardsmen brought his fist to his shoulder in a military salute. "An honor to have you, Grey Warden," he said stiffly. "You'll find that Dungate will meet your needs well enough, though our food supplies are not what they were, with no crops coming in from the south. The King's Arms is our local inn. They'll set you up right well enough with hot food and a warm bath." As Moira nodded her thanks, the guardsman seemed to notice Loghain for the first time, and he visibly started; if Loghain noticed, or cared, he did not show it.

The King's Arms was indeed a respectable, if small, tavern; the innkeeper seemed happy for the custom and eagerly shouted at a servant to fill baths for his weary guests. Moira was immensely relieved to strip out of her armor and scrub the filth of the darkspawn from her body. After, she cleaned and polished her armor with relish before her growling stomach told her it was time to head down to the tavern's common room for supper.

"Ah, there you are!" Zevran called out as she emerged into the common room. "As bright and beautiful as a blooming rose," he said grandly, grasping her hand and bestowing a soft kiss upon her knuckles. "And as fragrant as one too!"

"Oh, stop," she chuckled, swatting his shoulder. "I'd hardly say 'not smelling like darkspawn guts' is up there with 'blooming rose,' though it certainly is an improvement."

After obtaining a refreshing ale from the innkeeper, Moira observed that her companions were grouped loosely at several tables throughout the common room: Leliana sat near Wynne, Morrigan looked haughty and bored per usual, and Oghren was firmly ensconced at the bar, seemingly content with a liquid dinner. Loghain, however, was off by himself, sitting alone at a shadowed table in the corner. Moira wondered if it was because he preferred the solitude, or because he had sensed hostility from the others and had felt unwelcome. Against her better judgment, she walked over to his table.

"I hope you don't mind company," she said, deliberately refraining from asking permission as she sat beside him. He glowered at her, but his heart didn't seem to be in it, and he merely harrumphed in response. Moira wondered whether, if she spent enough time around him, she would eventually decipher the distinct meaning behind each of Loghain's various grunts, growls, and scoffs.

"I don't seem to have any choice in the matter," he replied archly, his countenance lightening ever so slightly. "But your companionship is… not unwelcome, Warden."

"From you, that's high praise," she said. "I'll take what I can get." The serving girl bustled into the common room from the kitchens, setting a bowl of what looked like stew in front of Zevran, who made a rather ill-fated attempt to catch the girl's eye. Loghain scoffed, and cast a suspicious glance at Moira.

"Is he your lover?" Loghain asked bluntly.

Moira had been in mid-swig, and a gout of ale spewed forth from her mouth. "_What_?" she choked out, around the remnants of her mouthful of ale. "Who, Zevran? My lover?"

"Yes, your lover," he repeated, scowling. "Do not play the innocent chantry-mouse act with me. It does not suit you."

Moira goggled disbelievingly at Loghain. "No, he is not my _lover_! Though it was not for his lack of trying, I assure you."

Loghain scoffed. "He certainly seems to behave as though you are more than friends."

"Well, he is a bit flirtatious, but it's harmless fun! He's lovely, and it's nice to speak with someone who isn't so dreadfully serious all the time, who isn't fixated on the Blight or our impending doom." She paused abruptly as a very awkward realization dawned on her. "Are you jealous?"

It was Loghain's turn to splutter defensively. "What? No, of course not! Do not be foolish!" He took a sullen sip of ale, his glower returned to its full, surly glory. "I was merely concerned that you had formed an… attachment to a man whose loyalties cannot be fully trusted, and I meant only to urge you to proceed with caution."

Moira laughed, the irony of his words not lost on her. "You do realize that nearly everyone else has said the same thing about you?" She struggled to maintain an air of nonchalance. _He surely isn't jealous. He can't be. Why would he be jealous, for the Maker's sake? He doesn't even _like_ me! The very notion is absurd._

He snorted in disdain. "I doubt there is any danger of you forming such an attachment to me," he said.

Moira returned to her ale, dismissing Loghain's retort with a careless shrug, but her insides roiled. Of course there was no danger of her forming an _attachment_ to him! She might have decided that he was trustworthy, at least insofar as she could count on him to fight alongside her, but the thought of actually – well, it was ridiculous, that was all there was to it. But why then did he sound almost… aggrieved at the thought that she would not feel such things for him? _Was_ he jealous? She immediately dismissed the thought as foolish. She had been on the road too long, and now she was looking for something that was not there, imagining that he'd meant something he most certainly had not. And it was a moot point, anyway, because she certainly felt no such –

"Why are you really here, Warden?" His abrupt query silenced her inner musings.

"Excuse me?" She turned to glare at him, taken aback by his sudden change in tone. Whatever amiable mood he might have been in earlier was long gone, replaced now by a glowering displeasure that she was uncertain how she'd provoked.

"Why did you join me?" he grated. "Your _friends_ are seated elsewhere. Yet you chose to seek out my company, even though we can barely tolerate each other. Why?"

Moira was stung by his words; they were not friends, it was true, but she had imagined that perhaps he thought a bit better of her than that, especially after the rapport they'd reached the night before. And yet ever since she'd sat beside him, he'd been almost unremittingly unpleasant. Her disappointment transformed almost immediately into ire.

"Perhaps I simply wanted to understand you a bit better, now that you're under my command," She subtly emphasized the last three words for his benefit. "I need to ensure that you won't suffer from the same catastrophically poor judgment as you did during your 'regency.'"

Loghain stiffened, at once assuming a mask of cold assurance. "Ah, here it comes, at last! I knew you would not long be able to withhold your contempt for me, Warden! Let's have it, then! What insults do you have for me? I am eager to hear them all."

"Very well." She was as angry with herself as with him now, for forgetting that she was dealing with the man who'd wanted her dead not so very long ago. "You want insults? I've got one for you: slaver."

He stared hard at her for a long moment, and she wondered if she'd actually struck a meaningful blow, before he snorted derisively. "Of all the things that I have done, that troubles me the least," he said, his voice hard-edged with defiance. "Do you know how many soldiers I was able to field for every single elf the Tevinters bought? Thirty, at minimum. Armies must be trained, fed, outfitted. Where, pray, do you think that coin was going to come from during a Blight?"

"And that justifies what you did?" Moira shook her head, incredulous. "To protect Ferelden's citizens, you'd _sell_ those same citizens into slavery? What happened to defending our country from foreign influence?"

"The Tevinters had no interest in ruling Ferelden, unlike the Orlesians," he snapped. "What exactly do you imagine would have become of those same downtrodden elves when the Blight comes to Denerim? They are not allowed weapons, and you know as well as I do that the city guard will abandon the alienage to the mercy of the horde if it means saving the rest of the city. Is life as a Tevinter slave truly worse than death at the hands of the darkspawn?"

"You tell me," she shot back. "Is dying as a free man preferable to living under Orlesian rule? You certainly seemed to believe so."

"Orlais crushed all of Ferelden beneath its boot for nearly a century!" Loghain snarled. "Would I trade a few dozen elves to prevent that from happening again? Yes, without a moment's hesitation!" He narrowed his eyes, his brows furrowing intently as he glared at her. "Dark times require difficult sacrifices, of all of us. Can you truly tell me that you have never abandoned a single soul to his fate, if it meant saving more lives elsewhere? Can you claim that your actions have never had grave consequences – that no innocents were sacrificed to ensure the greater survival of a town, a city, a country? Can you?"

"This is not about me or my choices!" Moira rejoined, refusing to dwell on any painful memories his words summoned. "I certainly never sold any free men into _slavery_, whatever else I have done. I don't care how much gold you raised for Ferelden's coffers. It was unconscionable."

"Then why did you not bring your evidence before the Landsmeet?" he challenged. "If you found my conduct so abhorrent, you could have easily ensured my eternal shame before all of Ferelden's nobility. And yet I did not know you'd managed to uncover that particular sordid bit of business until just now. Why keep such a volatile secret to yourself?"

Moira had wondered the same thing, especially in the immediate aftermath of the Landsmeet. She had primarily invoked Howe's barbarities to undermine Loghain's support, even though she herself did not truly believe that Loghain had ordered, or even been aware, of the worst of them. She shoved aside the uncomfortable notion that perhaps her desire to see Howe publicly disgraced had overridden whatever moral outrage she'd felt on behalf of the elves of the alienage.

"That hardly matters," she said, hoping she sounded more dismissive than she felt. "You had to know someone would discover such a terrible secret eventually. You couldn't have truly believed that selling Fereldens into slavery was the right thing to do, even if you did need to raise money for the army. Why did you really do it? I can excuse… well, I can _understand_, at least, everything else. But I truly cannot understand this. Fighting a war because you believe it the right course of action is one thing, but selling your people – _our people_ – into slavery?"

Loghain lapsed into silence, and he cast his gaze down at his ale, staring into the murky depths for several long moments. When he spoke, his voice lacked the defiant anger of before.

"There had been… an incident, in the alienage," he said quietly. "While Cailan's army gathered at Ostagar. The Arl of Denerim's son… I forget his name."

"Vaughan?" Moira said, a slow sense of dread creeping into her gut. She had been hot with bloodlust, having just driven her blade into Rendon Howe's belly, when she'd encountered the foppish noble lord rotting away in one of Howe's prison cells. She'd quickly determined that the young lordling was, despite his imprisonment by Howe, every bit as nasty a piece of work as his captor. When the arrogant little bastard had dismissed the elves as animals who "sometimes mistook themselves for people," she'd thrust her blade into his guts without a second thought, earning horrified gasps from some of her companions.

"Yes, that's it. Urien Kendall's boy. Evidently, it was his custom to invite himself to elven weddings, and, ah, demand conjugal privileges with the bride, and all of the bride's friends and relatives. The young and pretty ones, at least." Thick, hot anger oozed through Moira, followed by a sense of vindication. She'd _known _Kendall was rotten to the core as soon as he'd opened his mouth, and she'd been right. Any doubts she harbored over murdering an unarmed man in his prison cell melted away.

"Unfortunately for him, his last victim was not so passive. The bride managed to subdue the men guarding her, and went on a rampage in the arl's estate. She killed everyone except Kendall himself – apparently, he only just managed to escape by sacrificing his little lordling friends and his personal guard to buy himself some time." Loghain's tone made it clear exactly what he thought of Vaughan Kendall's lack of valor. "Terrible riots erupted in the alienage. Kendall's latest provocation, the bride's defiance… it created a perfect storm. By the time I arrived in Denerim, Rendon Howe had assumed control of the arling. He informed me that Vaughan had been killed in the riots, and that order needed to be restored in Arl Urien's absence." He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Urien had been summoned to Ostagar, but he never made it there. I do not know what became of him. The victim of some plot hatched by Howe, or perhaps his viper of a son, no doubt."

"Vaughan wasn't killed in the riots," Moira said quietly. "I found him, in Howe's dungeon." She paused, wondering whether to reveal her role in the affair, then decided that if Loghain could be forthright, so could she. "I killed him there. He was one of those nobles who used his birthright as an excuse to inflict whatever cruelties he desired on anyone he imagined 'beneath' him. I'd had enough of arrogant, sadistic noblemen that day, so I stabbed him in his cell."

Loghain looked askance at her, and he seemed almost impressed. "Well, the world will hardly miss him," he said archly. "But… that is yet another matter about which Rendon Howe fabricated an utter lie. Knowing what I now know, I would disbelieve the entire tale, except that the riots, and their cause, were commonly known in Denerim." He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "Regardless, Howe convinced me that, in the absence of a proper heir for the arling, he would accept the burden of ruling in Urien's stead while I attended myself to the business of securing our borders." Loghain snorted. "He assured me that he would get the situation in the alienage under control. A couple of weeks later, he came to see me with one of his advisors, a mage. He informed me that this mage had contacts in Tevinter, and that he could arrange an agreement that would solve both the problem of funding the army as well as quelling the unrest in the alienage. When he… explained the plan, I… could not argue with his logic. So I signed and sealed the agreement. I believe you know the rest." His voice had grown bitter, and he took a long, deep pull of his ale.

"Wait," Moira said. She remembered the fight with Howe in his dungeon. Howe had not dared face her alone – he'd been surrounded by bodyguards, and she remembered his pet mage, hurling all sorts of fiendish spells at her and her companions. "He had his mage with him? I remember killing a mage when I fought Howe. He was performing blood magic."

Loghain creased his brows in confusion. "I do not doubt it," he said. "I am not sure how that is relevant – it should hardly surprise you that Howe would involve himself with a maleficar. As you demonstrated for the benefit of the Landsmeet, I was not too proud to do business with such a one myself." She recalled Jowan, the hapless blood mage who'd been sent by Loghain to poison Eamon – but regardless of any initial ill intent, Jowan himself had proven to be a fundamentally decent person, who had truly regretted the harm he'd caused in Redcliffe. There had been no such sense of humanity, or mercy, from Howe's mage.

"Don't you understand?" she said. "If Howe was surrounding himself with blood mages – Loghain, it's possible that he coerced you into that agreement. Maleficars deal with demons – he could have exerted influence over you, forced you to do something you would not have done – "

"Warden. Enough." Loghain's voice was at once firm and very tired. "I do not know why you now seem so eager to absolve me of my sins, when you were so determined to hold me to account for them mere moments ago. But I will not accept that any decisions, or mistakes, I made were not my own. I made my choices, and I will answer for them if I must. That is why I accepted your judgment, and why I swallowed your Grey Warden poison and swore an oath to follow you. You do not need to offer any excuses for me. I will accept none."

She shook her head, amazed at the stubborn pride of a man who'd rather accept the shame of having committed a terrible crime over the possibility that he'd been tricked or coerced against his will. "Suit yourself. If you'd rather take the full blame for your sins than admit that Howe might have been manipulating you from the very beginning, I won't stop you. But I think you ought to at least consider the possibility. Howe was a snake, and he could be extremely deceptive."

"And that should bring me comfort?" he asked quietly. "I would prefer to believe that I made mistakes of my own volition than to imagine I was weak-willed enough to be led around by the nose."

Moira shook her head again. "As I said before… you would not be the first otherwise-honorable man to be deceived and manipulated by Rendon Howe."

"Otherwise-honorable?" he repeated with an arched brow, a trace of wry humor evident in his voice. "I do believe that is the highest praise I've heard from you yet, Warden."

Moira smiled weakly, and she felt curiously relieved that their disagreement had, if not entirely been resolved, at least subsided for now. Whatever sense of peace she enjoyed, however, was tempered by unease over Loghain's disturbing revelations – about the atrocious situation in the alienage, the Tevinter slavery plot and Loghain's degree of culpability, and Howe's preternatural – and possibly demonic – ability to manipulate and influence even the strongest-willed of men.

"What happened to her?" she asked.

"Who?" Loghain frowned in confusion.

"The elven bride," Moira said. "The one who killed all of Vaughan Kendall's men."

"She was executed, of course," he said, as if the answer should have been obvious. "It was done before I arrived in Denerim. Her death was what sparked the riots, or so I was told."

Before she could respond, the serving girl scurried up to their table, two large and steaming crocks of stew on her tray. "So sorry for the delay, sers! We ran out after that dwarf of yours ate three helpings. Had to cook up another batch. Hope you enjoy!" She bustled away as quickly as she'd come after unceremoniously depositing the crocks on their table.

Loghain nearly growled as he scooped up his fork. "Maker, I'm ravenous," he grumbled, shoveling a large and undignified forkful of stew into his mouth. Moira attempted unsuccessfully to stifle a snort of amusement, and he shot her a glare.

"I forgot to warn you about that particular side effect of the Joining," she said as she raised her own fork. "The darkspawn corruption will increase your appetite." She watched, bemused, as he devoured his stew with gusto. "I suppose it is altogether one of the least objectionable consequences of the taint." Her amusement faded as she recalled the one rather more objectionable consequence she still hadn't discussed with him.

"Loghain… there's something you need to know." Her tone must have been sufficiently dire, because he set down his fork carefully and turned to look at her with a solemn expression.

"I take it you're about to reveal to me another delightful benefit of being a Grey Warden?" he said wryly. "You know, you can hardly blame me for my antipathy against your order. If you Wardens weren't so damned secretive, perhaps the rest of us would stop wondering what dreadful mysteries you were concealing."

"Believe me, I had no idea either." The bitterness, never fully forgotten, roared back in full force. "I was conscripted against my will, remember? I only learned of this particular… benefit… a month or so ago, when Alistair offhandedly mentioned it to me around the campfire."

"Well?" Loghain prompted. "Don't keep me in suspense forever, Warden. Am I going to grow a pair of horns? Perhaps turn into a dragon? Do tell."

"You jest, but you're closer than you think," she murmured. "Do you remember how I told you that the taint is slowly turning us into darkspawn? Well… that wasn't an exaggeration. The taint corrupts everything it infects. Everything. The Joining ritual allows us to control the taint, use it to our advantage. But only for a time. Eventually, it will consume even a Warden. When that happens… I am told the Warden is aware that his time has come. It is known as the Calling. When a Warden feels his Calling, he usually retreats into the Deep Roads, so that he can end his days fighting the monsters before he becomes one himself." She snorted a mirthless laugh. "Well, the male Wardens do, anyway. I saw… I saw what happens to women in the Deep Roads. I will put myself to the blade before I suffer such a fate."

When she did not elaborate after several moments, Loghain released a long, slow sigh. His face was carefully neutral. "And this… Calling? How long after the Joining does it take?"

She shrugged. "Alistair told me that Wardens usually live no more than thirty years after the Joining. Sometimes less. I'm told that during a Blight, when the corruption is stronger, that time can be drastically reduced." She forced a humorless smile. "So we're likely to enjoy another ten, perhaps twenty years at the most, assuming we survive the Blight at all. Oh – one other detail, though I suppose it is less pertinent for you. The taint also dramatically decreases a Warden's fertility. So I'll likely never be able to have children, either." She picked up her mug of ale and swirled it around, pretending to be engrossed in the eddying flow of liquid. "So there you have it. The glorious life of a Grey Warden. Short, brutal, and alone. Now there's a good slogan for the recruiting posters, don't you think?"

Loghain said nothing for a long moment, but when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost gentle.

"I am truly sorry, Warden," he said.

"Please, stop calling me that," she said. "I have a name. Moira. I'd much prefer you used it."

"Moira." The way he said her name – slowly, deliberately, as though it held great power – sent an unsolicited shiver down her spine. "You are named for the Rebel Queen. Maric's mother. She kept the spirit of Ferelden alive, when all hope was thought lost." He regarded her with a curious gleam in his eyes. "You are worthy to bear her name."

Only from a man such as Loghain could such simple words carry such indelible praise, and her face flushed hot in response. "Thank you," she said, fortunately able to speak the words around the sudden dryness in her throat. "That is kind of you to say."

He deflected her words with a soft harrumph. "It is not kind, it is true," he said, a bit too gruffly.

"A thing can be both kind and true, you know," she said, raising her eyes to his. A peculiar sensation percolated through her as she held his gaze, his ice blue eyes suggesting depths far beneath what she could see on the surface. The peculiar sensation gnawed at the pit of her stomach, warmed her blood, and she broke her gaze away abruptly, feeling an acute and inexplicable discomfiture.

"I believe I must admit that I was wrong, earlier," he said, the gruff tones softening somewhat. "I find you far more than 'barely tolerable.' You are more congenial than I expected, or deserve."

The peculiar feeling roared back to life at his oddly formal words, and Moira's heartbeat quickened, the way it did when she prepared to enter battle. "I… thank you. I never expected to – " She cut herself off abruptly. She never expected to what? To feel anything other than hatred for Loghain Mac Tir? But a mere lack of hatred did not account for the raw, unexplained ache in her chest.

"Nor did I," he said, leaving her to wonder what he meant. "But it has grown late. You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day."

She cast her gaze around the common room and noticed that the rest of her companions had left (except for Oghren, who was slumped over the bar, snoring loudly). She hadn't even realized that she was alone with Loghain, but now that she did, his presence seemed to agitate her even more than before. She rose from her seat and stepped away from the table, feeling a vague relief at the physical distance that now separated them.

"Yes, rest will do us both some good," she said, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion. No doubt it was the ongoing stresses of battle, war, and the Blight that were affecting her so and upsetting her equilibrium. A nice, relaxing night in a bed would set her to rights, and calm her restive, overactive thoughts.

"Moira." Another tremor raced through her at the way he said her name, as if she were the Rebel Queen herself returned to Ferelden. "I know you did not choose this fate. Very few of us can claim to be the sole architects of our destiny. I believed that I alone could save Ferelden, and you can see where such hubris led me. You, on the other hand, committed no such sin, and yet you share my fate. It is not fair, but I learned at a very young age that life is rarely fair. All we can do is make the most of the chances we are given."

"I know," she said quietly. "Do not worry about me. I know my duty. But… I appreciate your words." She smiled softly at him. "Good night, Loghain." She turned and retreated up the stairs before she could dwell on the odd feelings he generated within her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Well, this was another talky chapter, but Loghain and Moira have to bridge quite the gulf between them. However, dear readers, rest assured that the next chapter will kick the plot into a higher gear, so stay tuned.

I owe a debt and an extra special thanks to the lovely EasternViolet, who has graciously volunteered to beta this story. Her assistance has already wrought quite the improvement in this chapter, and I have no doubt that this story will be vastly better thanks to her! Any typos or errors that remain are, of course, entirely mine.

For those of you who have found this story by searching the Dragon Age archives on fanfic dot net, please be advised that I intend to raise the rating of this fic to M when I post Chapter 5, just to stay on the safe side (but don't read too much into that just yet ;) . The default fanfic dot net archive search automatically excludes M rated fics, so be sure you follow/favorite this story, bookmark the page in your browser, or adjust your search settings to include M rated fics, because otherwise you will not see any further updates become available through the default archive display.

Lastly: a huge THANK YOU to all my lovely readers and reviewers! Your feedback has been wonderful, and I appreciate every single one of you who has taken the time to read, favorite, follow, and/or review this story. (And I appreciate all of you lurkers who are reading along and enjoying it as well!) I want to especially thank Em for her lovely and gracious review, since I can't PM her: I am so glad you're enjoying this story, and I hope you like where I am taking Loghain and Moira as they come closer to their showdown with the archdemon.

Well, I've rambled on long enough. Future author's notes will not be this long-winded, I promise ;)


	5. The Maker's Grace

The morning dawned bright and clear, and Moira had to admit that her companions' insistence on finding an inn had been a worthy one. She felt more rested than she had in months – though the inn's modest bed certainly could not compare to Arl Eamon's sumptuous accommodations, she was free of many of the tensions that had wracked her of late. The Landsmeet was over, Ferelden was united at last, and she had even managed to reach a tentative peace with Loghain – a peace which was not without its own complications, but a peace nevertheless. The darkspawn had been there, in her dreams – as they ever were – but so had something else; a familiar presence, steadfast and strong, sensed through the taint. She had grown so accustomed to the dreams that they rarely continued to trouble her upon waking, but this morning, she woke not only untroubled, but strangely comforted. It could only have been Loghain, reaching out to her through the taint – that was the only explanation that made sense – but it begged the question of why she had never once felt Alistair's presence, despite all their months of traveling and fighting together. Had he done it consciously? She couldn't imagine so – he would have been asleep as well. She wondered if he had similarly sensed her beside him while he battled monsters in his dreams.

Adjusting the straps of her gauntlet, she descended the stairs, paying the smiling innkeeper a generous bag of sovereigns on her way out the door. Emerging into the warm sunshine, her pleasant mood was chilled at once: standing near the road, engaged in a heated argument with a man in a guard uniform, was Loghain, a silver-gauntleted hand beginning to descend towards his sheathed blade. Swearing violently under her breath, she strode towards the brewing confrontation.

"You killed him, as surely as if you buried your blade in his back yourself!" The guardsman raged. Moira recognized him as the gate guard who had greeted her the day before. "You should have died a traitor's death."

"Your fool of a king was responsible for his own fate. A fate you conveniently did not share, I see. It appears I was not the only man who knew that battle was lost before it began." Loghain kept his anger tightly reined, but his hand had settled threateningly against the pommel of his sword.

"How dare you? I never abandoned his side! I – "

"What in the Void is all this about?" Moira's voice, hard as steel, cut through the exchange and silenced both men.

"Excuse me, Grey Warden." The guard bowed his head respectfully, but his eyes lost none of their blazing ire. "My name is Ser Elric. I was a member of King Cailan's personal guard. I was at his side at Ostagar, where my king – " his voice wavered with restrained emotion – "fell in battle, a victim of General Loghain's treachery! I demand blood vengeance from this traitor for the king's death!"

"If blood is what you want, you shall have it," Loghain said darkly. "But you can be certain that it will not be mine."

"Enough!" Moira snapped, glaring at each man in turn. "There will be no blood shed here, and that is an end to it! Both of you, stand down!"

Loghain clearly chafed at being so blatantly ordered about, but he nevertheless eased his hand away from the hilt of his sword, albeit with considerable reluctance. The guardsman at first seemed ready to defy her, glaring balefully at Loghain, but at last he too relaxed his posture.

"Ser Elric, Loghain is a Grey Warden now, just like me. He and I will fight side by side to stop this Blight. You will show him the same respect you have shown me." She took Elric's measure: he was clearly a proud man, and he carried himself with a military precision beyond what she would have ordinarily expected out of a mere village guardsman. His face twisted into a grimace at her suggestion that he respect Loghain.

"Mistress Warden, I – you ask too much! I cannot and will not respect the man who murdered my king!" he spluttered. Loghain heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Ward – Moira, surely we have better things to do than listen to this poltroon's pathetic bleating," he grated. "Let us be gone from this place."

Moira was inclined to agree – and the sooner she could put distance between Loghain and the indignant guard, the better. "Ser Elric, I thank you for your service to Ferelden," she said, hoping a bit of diplomacy would serve to soothe rankled nerves. "But my fellow Warden – " she made sure to subtly emphasize Loghain's title – "is indeed correct that we are on pressing business. I am afraid we cannot tarry here any longer."

"Wait," Elric said, reaching into a leather pouch at his waist. Loghain was immediately on guard, reaching down for his sword, but Moira placed a gentle, restraining hand on his arm, urging him to calm. Even through their heavy armor, she could feel him react to her touch, his muscles tensing at the contact. A sudden urge to squeeze his arm, to lightly run her gauntleted fingers across the gleaming silverite plate, arose within her without warning and took her by utter surprise; she quashed it at once, but the lingering tremors remained, as unexpected as they were perplexing. She forcefully dismissed the strange impulse from her mind, and refocused her attention on Elric, who had pulled a key from his pouch.

"I am loath to entrust anything so precious to the betrayer himself, but I do trust the Grey Wardens, and I cannot return, and… well, it is not right that our king lies there still, without a proper burial," he said.

"You wish us to return to Ostagar?" Not only was it a significant detour from Redcliffe, it was deep in the heart of darkspawn-held territory, and would no doubt be infested with the monsters. Moira began to imagine that perhaps the poor guard had been addled by his experiences at that ill-fated battle. "Ser, Ostagar is deep in darkspawn territory. While I share your regret for the king's fate – " she heard Loghain stifle a snort beneath his breath – "we cannot spare the time to return to the battlefield. I am sorry – "

"That is not the only reason you must go there," Elric insisted. "This is the key to a chest in His Majesty's tent. It holds all of his personal correspondence. I do not know what is contained in those documents, but they could be of vital importance to the nation! They should not fall into darkspawn hands, if it can be helped. Please, Warden. The king had the greatest respect for your order – he would want the Grey Wardens to have what was his."

Moira frowned, considering Elric's words. Cailan's personal documents? She could not imagine of what immediate use they could be, now that the horde was on the march, but… Elric was right enough that they might contain the sort of sensitive information that should be recovered. She noticed that Loghain's attention had piqued at the mention of Cailan's correspondence as well.

"Such vital documents, and you with the only key." Loghain narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "And here you are, freely offering it to us. Why have you not returned before now to secure your king's possessions and tend to his body, if it matters so desperately to you?"

"I am not offering it to you, traitor," Elric said pointedly. "I offer it to your Warden companion, who valiantly fought beside the king and did not desert him in his hour of need! I could not possibly venture so near the darkspawn horde on my own, but a Grey Warden could! Their skills against the darkspawn are legendary, their prowess unmatched!" Moira could only stare at poor Ser Elric, who had most certainly misplaced a few marbles on the field at Ostagar. She refrained from pointing out that if she traveled to Ostagar to secure Cailan's belongings, then Loghain was certain to see them as well.

"Bah!" Loghain snorted. "You've listened to too many of Cailan's bedtime stories. It was exactly these sorts of fantastical delusions that led him to ruin."

"Right," Moira said quickly, taking the key from Elric's hand before he could change his mind. "We will secure the king's belongings and ensure they end up where they belong. And should we encounter his body, we will send him to the Maker as befits a king of Ferelden."

Elric bowed his head to her, apparently having decided that Loghain was no longer worthy of his attention. "Then that is all I can ask. I thank you, Warden." Moira nodded, and, taking Loghain gently by the elbow before he could further antagonize the unstable guard, led him away towards where the rest of the party had gathered near the village gates, obviously brimming with curiosity about the confrontation that had transpired.

"Well, you certainly know how to make friends wherever you go," she quipped.

He cast her a sidelong glance. "That idiot accosted _me_. You cannot expect me to meekly submit to such provocation."

"I can't imagine you've ever meekly submitted to anything, no." Loghain might be many things, but 'meek' was assuredly not one of them.

"Exactly so." As they continued on towards the village gate, he reached out and gently touched her arm, motioning for her to pause. She turned to regard him curiously – it was rare for the taciturn man to initiate conversation, and her interest was piqued.

"Moira, I… only wished to thank you, before we rejoin the others." The halting awkwardness of his words made it plain that he was not a man used to expressing unsolicited gratitude. "You were under no obligation to defend me, and I neither expected nor, perhaps, deserved it. But it was kind of you to do so, and I appreciate it nonetheless."

Moira was rendered momentarily dumb by Loghain's gracious, if clumsy, words. She truly hadn't thought twice about defending him to Ser Elric. Perhaps she was so used to arguing with her companions about him that it had become second nature, or perhaps she had finally begun to believe her own words, and no longer had to justify them to herself.

"You're welcome," she managed at last, hoping he would not notice the blush spreading across her cheeks. "You're my – " Her what? She'd almost said 'friend,' but surely she could not call him her friend, not yet, despite the strangely electric tingling in her belly when she sometimes spoke to him, as she now felt. "My companion, and as such you have my support. We're in this together now."

"Indeed." He gave her a laconic half-smile, and she was left to wonder at what had passed between them, both spoken and unspoken, as they reached her comrades at the village gates.

* * *

><p>When she explained her reasoning for the detour to Ostagar, most of them accepted it at face value, whether because they trusted implicitly in her leadership or because they were motivated by the simple desire to prove themselves in combat and earn some coin along the way. Morrigan had a shrewd look, but Morrigan always had a shrewd look, and, as usual, she declined to elaborate upon her thoughts. Wynne, however, was positively incensed.<p>

"You are bringing _him_ to Ostagar?" The mage had cornered her later that evening, as they prepared to set up camp for the night. "I can think of nothing more disrespectful to our honored dead than to allow their murderer free rein to trample upon their bones."

Moira gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to comment upon Wynne's flair for melodrama.

"You have made your displeasure at Loghain's presence quite plain," she said, making no attempt to coat her words with any pretense of diplomacy. "I suggest that you get used to it, one way or another. He is a Grey Warden now, Wynne, and that means he is my companion, and yours. If you cannot tolerate that, then I suggest you return to the Circle."

Wynne sucked in an angry breath. "I do not appreciate your tone, young lady! I am not so fickle as to abandon the greater cause – unlike Loghain, my loyalty runs deeper than my personal ambitions."

"Perhaps you mean 'unlike Alistair'?" Moira shot back. "He is the man who 'abandoned the greater cause' out of personal pride, not Loghain."

"How dare you? Alistair was driven away by your – "

"By my what?" The dam holding back Moira's anger finally burst. "By my refusal to slaughter a man in a summary execution? By my consideration of the greater needs of the war against the darkspawn? By my decision to choose a living ally over a dead enemy? If that is so, then good riddance to him!" Wynne gaped at her, but Moira was not finished. "Alistair drove himself away, and that is the truth. He chose to desert rather than fight beside a man he didn't like, and that is exactly what it was – his _choice_. You may make the same one if you wish, but I am through explaining myself."

She noticed, after winding down her tirade, that the old woman's eyes brimmed with tears, and, despite herself, she felt a pang of sympathy. She had forgotten that Wynne had seen herself as something of a surrogate grandmother to Alistair, and that some of her resentment of Loghain must be an outlet for her grief for Alistair.

She heaved a heavy sigh. "Wynne, I – "

"No, Moira, you are right." Wynne's voice was so quiet Moira had to strain to hear her over the sound of the busy campsite. "Alistair made his own decision, though it grieves me. I know you did not want him to leave, and I am sorry for placing the burden of his guilt on your shoulders." She pursed her lips into a thin, narrow line. "But I cannot and will not apologize for my words about Loghain. I know you have decided, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, to befriend him, but I will never be able to forgive him his black deeds."

At Moira's incredulous expression, the mage raised a hand, forestalling the younger woman's objection. "Oh, do not bother denying it – do you not think I have seen you, spending hours at length speaking with him? That no one else notices when you disappear into the trees together, or wile away the nights in front of the campfire together or over a tankard of ale at the inn? I do not know if you feel drawn to him because of your Grey Warden connection, or if you truly enjoy his company," Wynne said, her tone making it perfectly clear exactly how improbable she thought the latter to be, "but all I ask is that you watch yourself. Do not forget who he is or what he has done. And do not expect me to remain silent if he gloats over the destruction he wrought at Ostagar." With a final, admonishing glare, Wynne drifted away, leaving Moira with a jumbled confusion of thoughts.

She and Loghain were not friends. Were they? Their mutual animosity had certainly abated, but that was quite a low bar to set for friendship. They had reached a common understanding, and perhaps a shared solidarity – but again, that was hardly a standard for friendship. And yet hadn't she almost called him her friend earlier today?

Well, Wynne was hardly an impartial observer when it came to Loghain. She made no secret of how deeply she despised him, and she clearly viewed Moira's cordial relationship with him as tantamount to an intimate friendship. Moira sighed irritably. The last thing she needed to worry about was managing her companions' squabbles and disagreements, but she had a very uneasy feeling about this trip to Ostagar, and what Loghain's presence would bring out in Wynne and the others.

She saw Zevran, Leliana, and Oghren gathered around the campfire, Zevran deep into the telling of some hair-raising adventure or other, by the looks of things. Deciding she needed to do anything but dwell on her complicated thoughts about Loghain, she sat down by the fire next to Leliana, whose enraptured gaze was focused entirely on the Antivan assassin.

"Well, as you can imagine, the prince was less than thrilled to discover me in his wife's bed," Zevran chuckled. "But what could I do? It was she, after all, who had sent me a rather seductive missive instructing me to proceed to the mansion, all the while assuring me that the prince would be away on business in Rialto for another two days. I should have been more concerned when she appeared surprised to see me, but – alas! – I was young, and she was _very_ kinky, that one. So I believed it to be just another of her games."

"Oh, no!" Leliana squealed. "So she betrayed you?"

"Ah, not precisely," Zevran said. "It was plain that she was just as surprised to see him as I was! As it turned out… the prince's spies had discovered that his wife had been unfaithful. And so he forged a letter, in his wife's handwriting, ensuring that I would be at the mansion at the specified time. Then, he would arrive, discover his wife _in flagrante_ with another man, and slay us both in a fit of passion. It was a brilliant plan, really – what better way to kill your cheating wife than to catch her in the act? No one would ever question his motives."

"But you did not die," Leliana added, somewhat obviously.

"Indeed not, my perceptive friend! His plan might have worked, had I not been a trained assassin. A fact of which the prince was unaware, sadly for him." Zevran, despite his words, did not sound as though he felt all that much sympathy for the cuckolded prince. "But, fortunately for me, I make a point never to leave home without my, ah, tools of the trade. And the prince, however clever he might have imagined himself to be, was a sloppy assassin. It was not difficult to subdue him."

"So you killed him, then?" Leliana's eyes were wide with anticipation for Zevran's narrow escape.

Zevran laughed. "Of course not! As soon as he kicked down the door, I knew my simple dalliance with a beautiful woman had become something far more complicated, and – well, ever since the incident with the mage – I have always had a policy never to mix business and pleasure. And so I simply applied a bit of paralytic poison to the end of my dagger, just enough to render the prince helpless, and made my escape." He shrugged. "I had not received a contract for him, after all, and I am not a murderer! Besides, the prince had many enemies in Antiva, and it was not beyond imagining that another Crow had been paid to dispatch him. It is rude to poach another assassin's kill, you know."

"And the prince's wife?" Leliana asked.

Zevran tossed his shoulders in another careless shrug. "I never saw her again. I do imagine she must have had her way with her murderous husband while he was in thrall to the poison. She did not kill him, at least – I heard rumors many months later that he had fallen into ruin and was forced to sell off pieces of his merchant empire to his rivals. Perhaps she found a more sublime revenge than the taking of blood, yes?"

A more sublime revenge than the taking of blood. Moira had wondered, at times, if the fate she had inflicted on Loghain was worse than execution. She hadn't thought so, at the time – Alistair had been baying so loudly for Loghain's blood that Riordan's convenient eleventh-hour suggestion of an alternate fate had seemed a necessary lifeline, one she had eagerly seized. Moira stared into the guttering flames of the campfire, letting the continued conversation of the others wash over her unheard. She had never truly admitted to herself that she had spared Loghain for any purpose beyond the ruthlessly practical, but she realized now that she could not have gone through with his execution, even if Riordan had not offered the reprieve of the Joining. But why? After everything he'd done – what had stayed her hand that day? And why did her thoughts return to him even now, even when she was determined to push him from her mind?

With a frustrated sigh, she rose from her seat by the fire, ignoring the concerned looks of her friends, and made her way towards the tree line. They had camped not far from a stream, and perhaps a moment of solitude beneath the stars on the banks of the softly burbling brook would help set her mind at ease. She wended through the dense undergrowth, the muted rustling of the ferns and leaves against her legs accompanying the hoots of owls and the buzzing of insects in a gentle symphony. The forest was primeval and untamed in the deepening twilight, and as she emerged onto the stream's narrow bank, she had already begun to relax.

She sat at the stream's edge, easing off her boots and socks and dipping her toes into the cool water. There had been a stream on the grounds of Highever, a curving, twisty stream flanked on both sides by mossy, droopy trees. She and Fergus had taken every opportunity to escape their minders, to run down to the stream and lose themselves in a world without etiquette lessons or Chantry historians or the finer points of noble politics, to scale those small, sad-looking trees with branches that seemed made for children to climb.

Fergus. To her shame, she realized she hadn't thought about him in a while. She recalled her frantic need to search for him, to make sure he was safe, and how Duncan and Alistair and Morrigan and everyone had told her there was nothing she could do, that there would be time enough to search for her brother later, as if he were a minor footnote of little importance next to her grand mission. Did he live? If so, where could he possibly be? She took comfort in the fact that Howe had not bragged about his death, but with the darkspawn roaming about, and knowing she hadn't heard from him for months, she felt little ultimate reassurance.

"Are you all right?"

The soft, accented voice could only belong to Leliana. Moira sighed, ready to be irritated at the interruption of her solitude, but realized as soon as the thought formed that she was grateful for the company, for the chance to take her mind off of her litany of personal tragedies.

"I don't know." The answer was as honest as it was unexpected. "It seems that the harder I try to hold everything together, the more it all comes apart. I'm tired of trying, Leliana."

Leliana sat down next to Moira, slipping off her own shoes to dip her toes in the stream. "I know it seems like the Maker has placed a great burden on your shoulders. I suppose He has. But He wouldn't have chosen you if He hadn't known that you were the right person for the task."

"Do you really believe that?" Moira glanced askance at the Orlesian woman. "I don't think the Maker orchestrated the slaughter of my family and my abduction by the Grey Wardens just because He thought I was the best person to stop the Blight. At least, I hope not."

"Of course not! What happened to your family was an act of evil, driven by a cruel and jealous heart. But look at everything you have accomplished since then – who else could have united the land as you have, brought every race and every faction in Ferelden together against the darkspawn?"

"I'm not special, Leliana! I don't have greater power or wisdom or foresight than anyone else! I don't even know if the decisions I've made have been the right ones. I'm just… making it all up as I go along!"

"And you think Andraste Herself was so different?" Leliana challenged. "She was just a mortal woman, too. And yet She heard the voice of the Maker, and it inspired Her to great deeds."

"Well, if the Maker is speaking to me, He needs to be a bit louder, then, because I can't hear Him." Moira stared sullenly into the darkening night, her fingers idly picking at blades of grass. She had always been a believer – in the Maker, in Andraste, in the Chant of Light, in the Chantry's teachings – but she had never had the kind of easy, trusting faith that Leliana had. It was difficult for her to believe that anything that had happened in the past year had been a part of the Maker's plan.

"Sometimes the Maker speaks to us without words. Like the vision He gave me in Lothering." Moira suppressed an urge to sigh in exasperation – she did not disbelieve in Leliana's vision, per se, but she did not, as a rule, believe that the Maker went around implanting mysterious visions in people's dreams. "I know you do not believe in my vision, but perhaps the Maker has been speaking to you in other ways. You spared Teryn Loghain at the Landsmeet, for example, even though everyone wanted him dead. But something stayed your hand. Maybe it is not so farfetched to imagine that He spoke to your thoughts that day."

Moira's heart skipped a beat, and she wondered wildly how Leliana had known that she herself had been musing over that very subject moments before, at the campfire. Well, of course Leliana couldn't actually have known – this was just an uncanny coincidence. It had to be.

"You think the Maker wanted me to spare Loghain?" She disguised her unease with a flippant tone.

"And why should He not? The Maker promises forgiveness for all. Loghain conceded his defeat. Killing him would have served no purpose – it would have been an act of vengeance and cruelty, unbecoming of the Maker's Light. By recruiting him, you avoided a needless death and also gave Loghain a chance to redeem himself and right his wrongs. And I know that very few others would have given him such a chance." Leliana patted Moira on the shoulder. "So you see? Perhaps you should doubt yourself less, and trust yourself more. You have come this far, and I know that the Maker will give you the strength to see this through."

There were times when Leliana's earnest faith wore on Moira's nerves; but there were times when it served to remind her that she was but a small part of something far greater than herself.

"Thank you, Leliana," Moira said with sincerity. "I hope you are right."

"I know I am right." Leliana gave her a shy smile, then rose, drying her toes in the grass before replacing her shoes. "The Maker would not have sent me to you otherwise."

"I admit, I was surprised to hear you praise me for saving Loghain," Moira said hesitantly. "I thought everyone else in the party hated him, and resented me for choosing him over Alistair."

Leliana frowned in startled surprise. "I do not hate Loghain. I hate many of the things he did, but that is not the same as hating the man. He lost his way and allowed his pride to rule him. It is a mistake many have made." From Leliana's suddenly subdued tone, Moira suspected that she was speaking of her personal experiences in Orlais. "He should be given the chance to atone. The Maker's grace is unending, and none are beyond His reach."

Leliana's words continued to echo in Moira's thoughts as she returned to camp, Dane greeting her with an eager woof as she approached her tent. The fire had burned low, the smoldering embers casting the camp into stark, foreboding shadows. Her companions had scattered to their own tents, bedding down for the night in preparation for the long march to Ostagar. Had she had spared Loghain so he could atone for his sins? Or was there some other intangible reason she couldn't yet define?

And now she was about to take them all back to where everything had begun, where Loghain had made the fateful decision that had set them on this path. Her eyes drifted towards his tent, set – whether by chance or by design – apart from the others, and she felt an irrational pang of disappointment that she hadn't spoken to him tonight. He had barely reacted when she had agreed to take Ser Elric's key and return to Ostagar, and if the thought brought him any sorrow, guilt, or anguish, she could not discern it. Maybe it was folly to stir up such old ghosts, or maybe Leliana was right – perhaps absolution waited there, for Loghain and for them all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, I know I promised a less talky and more actiony chapter this time around, but... every time I try to prod them to go somewhere, Moira, Loghain, and Co. just seem to keep chatting it up! However, I do have some good news: when I originally wrote this chapter, it ended up being an epic behemoth, and so, on the advice of my lovely beta EasternViolet, I have decided to split it into two parts. You have just read part one, and - here's the good news - the second part, which will be chapter six, is already written and betaed! I will go over it in the next day or so one more time, and it will be posted in a couple of days or so - and there IS some real plot in that chapter, I promise! **

**Another huge round of thank yous to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, favorited, or otherwise enjoyed this fic so far! Your support means the world to me. Chapter 6 will be posted very soon!**

**Also, because I keep forgetting to stick this somewhere: I don't own Dragon Age, or Loghain. All belongs to Bioware. If I did own Loghain, you can bet he'd have been a romance option ;)**


	6. Return to Ostagar

Ostagar was a city of the dead, utterly deserted save for the ghosts.

The march had taken the better part of a week, through inhospitable terrain and the Blighted remnants of what had once been peaceful, thriving villages. Signs of the darkspawn's corruption were everywhere: withered trees, naked and barren of leaves though Harvestmere was still weeks away; blackened, sterile land, incapable of growing even patches of grass; and, of course, the empty villages, sacked and ruined and desecrated with the bloated, defiled corpses of their former inhabitants. The mood of the company had grown steadily more somber as they forged deeper into darkspawn territory, and the lack of darkspawn to fight brought no comfort. Moira knew that if the darkspawn had abandoned the south, then it could only mean one thing – the horde was on the march.

The Tower of Ishal loomed overhead, and Moira suppressed a chill, though the day was warm and pleasant. She was already beginning to regret the decision to come here. All the old, terrible memories flooded back in force – her unwilling flight with Duncan from the ruins of Highever to this old, abandoned fortress, where he had informed her that her life as a Grey Warden would begin; his refusal to elaborate on any aspect of what that life might entail; his savage murder of Ser Jory, with the implication that the same fate awaited her if she did not take up the poisoned chalice and destroy her own soul with the darkspawn taint. And then, of course, the frantic battle, the king's insistence on charging the horde head-on and from the front, and that ill-fated mission to the tower, where all had been lost. She wondered what Wynne and Loghain were thinking, the only two other members of her company who had known the ghosts that haunted this cursed place.

As it turned out, she did not have to wonder very long.

"You can stop glaring at me, madam," Loghain's voice rang out in the silence. "My memories of this place are no fonder than your own."

"No?" Wynne retorted. "I remember good friends dying here, and the man I respected as my king. And I remember his most trusted general abandoning the field."

"All I remember is a fool's death and a difficult choice. And Maker help me, I would make the same again." Despite the rough bluster of his words, there was no pride or defiance in Loghain's voice; only weary resignation.

"After everything that has happened? Every terrible thing you set in motion?" Wynne's voice dripped with disgust. "You still don't believe you did anything wrong, do you?"

"I have done enough wrong for a lifetime and then some." Loghain spoke sharply and with a deep bitterness, and Moira turned to him in surprise. "But of all the mistakes I have made, retreating at Ostagar was not one of them."

"Even knowing that you set in motion a civil war?" Wynne's disgust had given way to incredulity.

"Even so, madam. I did not _ask_ for the fools in the Bannorn to oppose me, nor for that scheming bastard Eamon to play his usual games. If there was civil war, then blame must be laid on those who saw fit to fight me when they should have been sending their armies to secure our border and fight the darkspawn."

"Of course they fought you! You murdered our king!" Wynne exclaimed.

"Ah, such loyalty! Though sadly after the fact, I might note." Loghain's words were slathered in sarcasm.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Wynne demanded indignantly.

"Oh, so you did try to save him, then? My apologies. I seem to keep running into people who have claimed their undying loyalty to our dearly departed King Cailan, and yet who were mysteriously absent when he needed them most. I must have confused you for such a one."

"What? I was fortunate to escape Ostagar with my life, no thanks to you!"

"So you failed to rush to your king's rescue through the endless horde of darkspawn? Perhaps you too realized that his reckless charge at the head of the army left him in an impossible position? Then it seems to me you had no qualms abandoning him to die, either. I admit I struggle to understand why your desertion was an act of heroic loyalty while mine was an act of treachery and cowardice," Loghain taunted.

"I had no army at my command! I could never have reached him in time! But you – "

"Had no magic at _my_ command to break through the darkspawn ranks. I could no more have saved Cailan from himself than you could have. But I suppose you think I should have tried, regardless? No doubt the lives of 'mere' soldiers are cheap in the eyes of an esteemed mage of the Circle."

"That is a low blow, Loghain," Wynne said dangerously. "And what of the lives of the soldiers who fought beside the king? _Their_ lives meant nothing to you!"

"I suppose you think so, don't you?" Loghain's bitterness had tempered into a very real anger. "I have watched you, madam – you have hated me from the day I set foot in Moira's camp. You think you have me all figured out. And so I shall only say this once – _I_ knew all the men we lost at Ostagar. I knew their names. I knew where they lived. I knew their families. I know _exactly_ how much was lost that day. Do you? Or are your only regrets for a fool king who was willing to slaughter good men for the sake of a children's fable?"

"That's enough, both of you," Moira interjected. She had decided it was best to let them get their mutual animosity out of their systems, but it was clear that this particular argument would never be resolved. Also – though Moira was not quite prepared to admit such a thing out loud – she valued the opportunity to hear Loghain explain his motives for his decision at Ostagar, a decision which she had always assumed – thanks to his inexplicable decision to frame her and Alistair as the 'king's murderers,' and his subsequent, increasingly erratic actions – had been motivated by a desire to usurp power for himself. But ever since she'd had a chance to get to know him, her expectations had entirely been turned on their head. He was not the vainglorious, heartless monster she'd been led to believe – he was just a man, trying to do what he thought was right, and sometimes failing. Could she really claim to be so different?

"My apologies, Moira," he said, sounding, to her surprise, sincere. "Come now, madam. Our bitterness is better spent on the darkspawn than each other."

"Of course," Wynne replied sarcastically. "Maker forbid that I should waste any bitterness on you."

Shaking her head, Moira indicated the gate that led into the fortress courtyard. "The king's chest should be through here," she said. "Let us retrieve his correspondence and whatever else remains, and then we shall be gone from this place."

"And not a moment too soon," Loghain added darkly.

Moira advanced slowly, her senses heightened, prepared for an ambush. The courtyard was as quiet as the approach had been, though signs of the darkspawn were everywhere – discarded weapons, gruesome totems, corpses cruelly trussed up on display. It was hard to believe that a mighty army had once camped here, trained here, fought here, died here. The ghosts of the dead were an oppressive force, weighing down on her. She shivered again despite the sun warming her face, and ran a hand through her braided hair, hoping her nerves were not as evident to the others as they felt to her.

"I feel them too." Loghain's voice was soft, meant only for her, as he appeared suddenly at her side. "Their spirits are restless. Perhaps my presence upsets them. You should not have brought me here."

She gave him a curious look – she had never pegged Loghain as a superstitious sort. "You can't really believe that," she said. "I'd think anyone's spirit would be restless after dying in a doomed battle with the darkspawn. I don't think… I don't think Wynne is the most objective party when it comes to what happened here."

"And you are? How is it you do not share her hatred for my actions here, particularly after I took the opportunity to cast the blame for the disaster on you and your fellow Warden?" His pale blue eyes searched her face wonderingly, and she flushed under his gaze.

"I never said I wasn't angry about that part. You caused me a lot of trouble, you know, and sent more of your men to their deaths trying to stop me." She frowned. "Why _did_ you do that, anyway?"

Loghain harrumphed. "The nobility needed a scapegoat for the crushing defeat and the loss of Cailan. Maker forbid I'd told them that the king died because of his own rank stupidity. I needed a villain, and the Grey Wardens fit the role nicely, what with your _Orlesian_ commander and his refusal to be remotely of use in dissuading Cailan from his suicidal grab for glory."

"Duncan wasn't Orlesian," she said. "Not that I'm defending him, otherwise – his insistence on secrecy made a bad situation worse. But Alistair and I are Fereldan. You could have reached out to us. There was no need to be enemies."

"I think we already saw just how willing your Alistair was to work with me," Loghain said wryly. "If it matters, I did not blame you personally. You were merely a convenient target. Knowing what I know now, I… would do things differently."

"I – thank you, I think." Loghain merely smiled at her in response, and she was left once again wondering just how the man could affect her so deeply with so few words.

A tattered, stained purple flag fluttered in the breeze, and Moira's heart clenched as she realized it was the royal standard, still doggedly serving sentry at Cailan's tent. Whatever her feelings about Cailan, it saddened her that a king of Ferelden had met such a horrifying, lonely end, with no one left to mourn him. If Loghain was similarly affected, he did not show it.

"Here we are," she said. "Let us secure the king's belongings. If we see his body, then we will lay him to rest, but I don't want to spend any longer here than we have to."

Cailan's tent had been reduced to shreds by the elements and the darkspawn, and scattered within was the detritus of an army on campaign – discarded blades, stray pieces of armor, the odd bit of wood or fabric that had once belonged to some implement of war long destroyed. A sturdy oak chest, secured in place by a hefty bronze lock, still stood intact at the rear of the tent, a few deep-scored marks on its side the only indication of damage.

"That must be where the king's correspondence was kept." Moira pulled the solid key out of a pouch at her hip and fitted it into the lock. The lock was a bit worse for wear after months of exposure to the naked elements, and the key did not at first want to turn; but at last, the pins within the lock gave, and it sprang open. Lifting the lid of the chest with a somber sense of respect, she spied inside relatively few items – a sheaf of documents, a small jewelry box, and a wrapped bundle that looked to be a weapon of some sort.

She felt Loghain hovering close behind her shoulder as she picked up the documents, which appeared to be personal letters. The first letter was written in flowery, feminine handwriting. Moira blushed as she felt Loghain peering over her shoulder to read the letter for himself – she somehow felt like an intruder, violating the privacy of a family moment. But she quickly realized that the letter had not been written by Anora. It was addressed to "His Majesty King Cailan of Ferelden," and promised –

"The might of Orlais?" Loghain quoted, sounding equally outraged and vindicated. "Legions of chevaliers accompanying the Grey Wardens? I _knew_ it! I knew that little fool was ready to open the floodgates to an Orlesian army, and I was right! Chevaliers in Ferelden! Did he know how much was sacrificed to drive those masked barbarians from our lands? Did he learn nothing from his father, his mother, from anyone? To allow the Empress of Orlais free rein to send an Orlesian invasion force under the guise of 'reinforcements'? The war would have been over without a single skirmish!"

"You are blinded by your hatred," Wynne admonished. "A true Blight will not stop with Ferelden – left unchecked, it will threaten all of Thedas!"

"Yes, and what better opportunity for Orlais to strike than amidst such chaos?" Loghain retorted. "You are a fool if you think that Celene's assistance would come without a price."

Moira stared at the flowery handwriting for several long moments. The request was innocuous enough – a plea for peace, to set aside a history of animosity and work together to face an enemy that threatened both Ferelden and Orlais. But she could not disagree with Loghain's logic – what _would_ have happened once Orlais' feared chevaliers were firmly ensconced on Fereldan soil? She had not lived through the occupation, but she knew, from her father's stories and the history lessons Brother Aldous had given her, that it had been brutal, and that it had taken many decades for the Fereldans to at last gain the upper hand on the chevaliers, who had been ruthless and skilled in equal measure. To invite such an ancient, bitter foe into their lands again, and merely hope that history would not repeat itself, seemed to her a grave folly.

"We don't know that Cailan agreed to her request," she said carefully, as she shuffled the letter to the bottom of the pile. "Perhaps he declined her after all."

"Or perhaps, had he lived, he would have opened the border and doomed us all." Loghain's tone left no doubt about which of the two options he believed more likely.

The second letter was written in handwriting now familiar to her, and she recognized it at once as Arl Eamon's spidery script. Eamon presciently foresaw that Cailan's death would plunge Ferelden into chaos; he also reiterated his claim that Anora was barren and that Cailan should put her aside. She felt Loghain stiffen in outage behind her.

"That old fool never stopped to consider that perhaps it was his nephew who was shooting untipped arrows," Loghain muttered darkly.

"Loghain!" Wynne gasped. "You are in the presence of ladies! Must you be so crude?"

Moira stifled a snigger. Crude or no, Loghain had a valid point. She recalled her discussions with Anora, before the Landsmeet, when Anora had sought Moira's continued support for her reign; Moira had asked her, gingerly, about the rumors of her infertility, and Anora too had implied that perhaps Cailan had been the 'problem,' as it were – especially in light of the lack of any royal bastards, given that Anora had implied that Cailan did not adhere to a strict interpretation of his marriage vows. That such a possibility had never occurred to such august nobility as Eamon betrayed either a lack of willingness to confront uncomfortable truths, or another agenda at play. Regardless, that Eamon wished Cailan to set aside Anora was not news to her, not given the letters Loghain had presented to her from Highever. She picked up the last letter in the bundle – it, unlike the others, was clearly unofficial, and lacked any formal seal. It was also creased and wrinkled, as though it had been crumpled in a haste by its reader before being smoothed out and refolded.

_Cailan,_

_The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to the darkspawn problem. You understand, of course? The darkspawn have odd timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first. Once that is done we can further discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden._

The handwriting was the same flowery, feminine script as the first letter – the author could only be Empress Celene.

"That cheating bastard!" Loghain raged, and before she had even quite finished reading the letter, he had spun away in a fury, lashing out with his boot to kick over a pile of rusty daggers, which scattered across the ground with a cacophonous crash. "Was it not enough that he dallied with serving wenches and painted whores in Denerim? His betrayal was so complete that he planned to take up with that Orlesian bitch?"

"Loghain! Mind yourself!" Wynne exclaimed.

"I will not, madam! You can read as well as I! Do you deny now that his _relations_ with Orlais go far beyond the innocent? He betrayed my daughter and all of Ferelden! A 'permanent alliance' with Orlais? He would have accomplished with one stroke of a pen what eighty years and an army of chevaliers could not! And for what? All so that peacock could strut about and call himself an emperor?"

"It is damning, Wynne," Moira agreed. "If Cailan had married Celene, do you really think Orlais would have been content to allow Ferelden its autonomy? We would have become just another imperial province. My father fought to liberate our country, and so did Teryn Loghain, and King Maric and Queen Rowan. I cannot believe that Cailan would have treated their sacrifices so lightly."

Wynne glared at Moira and Loghain in turn, seeing that she was outnumbered. "And what of peace?" she challenged. "Is your hatred of Orlais so deep that you cannot fathom such a thing? I understand that Loghain is incapable of being rational where Orlais is concerned, but I am disappointed in you, Moira. Grey Wardens are supposed to set aside political allegiances for the good of all."

"I never asked to be a Grey Warden," Moira rejoined bitterly. "I was not given a choice. I was born and raised the daughter of a teryn of Ferelden, and I will not set aside my loyalties because Duncan conscripted me against my will." A dark, foreboding prickle tingled within her, an ominous sense of doom that pressed at the back of her skull, but Wynne's angry retort cut through her apprehension.

"Young lady, you are a Grey Warden whether you like it or not! You might as well accept your fate! Complaining and wishing otherwise will change nothing! Duncan was a good man, whether you want to believe it or not – and thanks to Loghain's betrayal of your order, this Blight has gone unchecked for far longer than it should have."

"Duncan's obsession with secrecy is the reason we are in this mess to begin with!" Moira retorted, the uneasiness rising within her as her blood began to stir. "He knew with certainty that we faced a Blight, but he was more concerned with keeping Grey Warden secrets than in giving such information to Cailan, or to Loghain! Had they truly understood what we faced, perhaps things would have been different, but they had no way of knowing for certain that the darkspawn were harbingers of a Blight – all because Duncan placed the Order above the safety of Ferelden!"

"I know you resent Duncan for what you think he did to you the night your family died, but – "

"Shut up!" Moira shouted, the black, malicious presence now overpowering.

"Excuse me?" Wynne demanded. "I will not be –"

"Be silent, old woman! They are here, somewhere." She heard Loghain's voice through the pounding in her skull. He sensed it too – of course.

"We need to leave. Now." Moira said. Her taint burned in such proximity to the vile fiends, far stronger than it had at any time since she had been in the Deep Roads. There were many of them, and they were moving fast. More than their small party could hope to fight off on their own.

"Agreed," Loghain said briskly. "You see, Wynne – a wise warrior knows that quitting the field in the face of overwhelming odds is the only way to survive to fight another day."

"It is not the same, and you know it, Loghain." But Wynne's heart had finally gone out of the fight, and as Moira gathered up the contents of the king's chest, the party lapsed into silence as they quickly retreated across the courtyard and back to the bridge across the chasm. As they moved, she felt the raging in her taint growing fainter, as though the darkspawn were – for whatever reasons of their own – unwilling to leave the graveyard that was the battlefield. As they retreated across the bridge, she knew that they were safe, at least for the moment being.

"Oh, _Maker_. Cailan. No."

The voice belonged to Wynne, and was so riven by grief that Moira's heart went out to the old mage, in spite of their recent sparring. She followed Wynne's gaze to the side of the bridge, where a grotesque darkspawn totem had been constructed, the centerpiece of which was the crucified, naked body of the king, trussed up on display as a warning or a cruel joke – whatever the possible motivations for such soulless beasts as the darkspawn could be.

Moira's stomach wrenched in revulsion, and she saw that Loghain, regardless of whatever his feelings for Cailan might have been, looked ill at the sight. Wynne sniffed loudly, and brought her hands to her face, wiping away tears, and – to their credit – everyone in the party remained quiet, allowing her a moment of private mourning.

_I think Loghain was right about you_, Moira thought as she regarded the desecrated corpse of the king. _You were a fool, and you would have damned Ferelden with your naiveté. But you deserved better than this._

"Well?" Wynne said abruptly, her grief-stricken voice tinged with anger as she turned to glare at Loghain, as if holding him directly responsible for the ghastly vision before them. "Spit out your venom and get it over with, Loghain."

Loghain furrowed his brows in a deep frown, and even he appeared taken aback by Wynne's hostility. "He may have been a fool, but he doesn't deserve to be strung up like this. No one does."

"No," Moira said, interjecting before Wynne could respond. "Take him down. We will build a pyre for him, as befits a king of Ferelden." Loghain curled his lip, as though he were about to say something, but seemed to think better of it. Moira positioned herself on one side of the king's body, and Loghain on the other, and, using their daggers, they cut him down and lowered him to the ground gently. She directed the others to search the nearby woods for kindling, and as they constructed a makeshift pyre, Moira looked down at the face of the king, so young and so feckless, even in death. She had never realized just how startlingly he resembled Alistair, and the sight of her friend's face, caked in his own dried blood, brought a tight lump to her throat. Her thoughts a wicked jumble, she strode away towards the tree line as Wynne and Leliana dragged Cailan gently over to the pyre, Wynne lighting it with a soft burst of magical fire. Moira sat down heavily, the exhaustion of the day overwhelming her, and she gazed indirectly at the guttering flames. She heard a pair of heavy footsteps approaching, and she was unsurprised to see Loghain's silhouette in the shadows as he sat down next to her.

She felt his eyes on her in the deepening twilight, and after several moments of silence, he snorted softly. "A grand funeral pyre for the fallen king. You should have thrown roses and waxed poetic about what a great leader he might have been had he not thrown himself on the swords of the advancing darkspawn."

"You object even to a proper burial for him?" She regarded him with surprise. He had been affected by the king's ill-use just as she had – she had seen it in his eyes. "Is your animosity so great that you would deny him even this final dignity?"

"And where are the pyres for the other men and women who died here?" His voice was soft, but defiant. "Where are their proper burials, their dignified farewells? Or do they deserve to be left to the darkspawn's mercies because they had the misfortune to lack royal blood?"

"You know that is not what I believe."

"Perhaps not. Still, every soldier who died here on Cailan's command deserves a pyre more than he. Even your Warden Duncan deserves such an honor more. Whatever else he might have been, he was a true warrior. Cailan believed that war was a boy's adventure story, and he died for it. A fool's self-inflicted death is not a tragedy. The tragedy is how many good souls followed him to his grave."

They lapsed into silence, the crackling of the flames their only company. Returning to Ostagar had raised as many questions as it had answered – how long had the secret plans between Cailan and Celene being going on? Had Eamon known of the full extent – had it been he who had encouraged Cailan to set aside Anora specifically to make room for a match to the Orlesian empress? If so, then the letter he had written to her father must be read in a new light. Moira shuddered to imagine that Eamon had very nearly drawn her father into such a dangerous game. Her father would never have consented to a marriage "alliance" between Orlais and Ferelden, she knew it. The peace was barely older than she was – did Eamon, Cailan, and their like really believe that Orlais did not resent its defeat, did not hunger for past glories? At least now she had proof that Loghain had not been entirely paranoid and irrational in his fear of an Orlesian ploy. She thought of how cannily Eamon had used her, playing upon her sympathetic friendship with Alistair to manipulate her loyalties. At least she now had proof of that, too.

"I can't believe I ever trusted him," she said.

Loghain raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Who, Cailan? He was the king. You need not fault yourself for your loyalty."

"No, Eamon. He spun me a whole sob story about how Ferelden could only be united with a Theirin on the throne, that peace would only come if Alistair were crowned king, even though Alistair wanted nothing to do with his heritage and never has. But all that time, he was moving behind the scenes to secure an 'alliance' with Orlais, under the authority of a king who would rely on him as a most trusted advisor." She cast a glance askance at him. "Of course, you had befriended Howe and were busy trying to kill me, so I really had no other options, did I?"

Loghain huffed an impatient sigh. "I believe I already told you I would have done things differently, if I had known – "

"If you had known what?" she challenged. "If you had known that I was not an Orlesian agent? I am a loyal Fereldan, Loghain. You knew my father. You should have known better."

"Yes, I should have!" His voice broke with anger, but Moira did not flinch – she sensed that his anger was self-directed, not aimed towards her. "I should have known better about a great many things! The farther I move from the chaotic events after Ostagar, the more I become aware of the magnitude of my errors. I will not wallow in self-pity, Moira, but do not mistake my refusal to dwell on the past as a refusal to admit my mistakes. No one is more aware of what I have done wrong than I. But I cannot change what has already happened. I can undo nothing. All I can do is move forward and hope that I will have the opportunity to atone for some of what I have done, in service to my country. That is all I have ever wanted."

His blunt, unexpected admission rendered her momentarily mute. Loghain was a soldier's soldier, trained never to show weakness or vulnerability in the face of the enemy, and Moira began to wonder whether he had been wearing his armor for so long that he'd forgotten how to live without it. Impulsively, she tugged off a gauntlet, and placed her hand on his shoulder, the metal of his silverite plate cool against her hand.

"It is a brave thing, to admit when one is wrong," she said quietly. "You have my respect."

He harrumphed, plainly uncomfortable with her sincere praise, but he reached up to his shoulder to place his own still-gauntleted hand on hers. "And you have mine." He chuckled softly. "If you had told me even a month ago that I would one day consider you a friend, I would have laughed in your face. It seems it is the Maker who has the greatest sense of humor, after all."

"Perhaps so." His gauntlet was cold on her bare hand, but she did not want to move, to break the spell. Cailan's pyre blazed into the night, shedding a soft, intimate light across the field and glinting softly off of Loghain's silver armor. Her other hand reached down, to adjust a stray leather strap against her side, when it brushed against a solid package, lying beneath the bundle of documents. The wrapped parcel from Cailan's chest. Her curiosity took over as she removed her hand from Loghain's shoulder and brought the package to her lap.

"What is that?" he asked. "Was that from Cailan's chest?"

"It was. It seems to be a weapon of some sort. I wonder why he did not have it with him during the battle?" She unwrapped it carefully, revealing a stunningly-wrought sword of dwarven craftsmanship, with a blade of finely-hewn dragonbone, inlaid with glowing runes, and a hilt of softly curved gold. It was one of the finest weapons she had ever seen.

"Maker!" Loghain breathed. "That's Maric's sword! I haven't seen it in years!"

"Maric's sword?" Moira hefted it to better examine it in the firelight – the blade was feather-light, and the balance was perfect. "Why in the Maker's name would Cailan not have taken such a fine blade into battle? Especially if it belonged to his father?"

"I do not know. Cailan had not truly admitted me into his confidence for years," Loghain admitted. "I think he disliked being reminded of his father's legend. He felt inadequate to it, in many ways. It does not surprise me that he would hide away even a sword such as this, if it served as yet another measure of his failure to live up to his father's deeds."

"Of course he couldn't live up to his father's deeds!" Moira exclaimed. "Maric freed Ferelden from the Orlesians – there was no such war for Cailan to fight!"

"And now perhaps you better understand why he was so taken with the heroic mythology of the Grey Wardens, and why he so hungered for glory at the head of an army that he seized at the first chance that presented itself to throw himself at the darkspawn." Loghain's eyes drifted to the pyre, the flickering light casting shadows across his brow. "Stupid boy. Why didn't you just _listen_?"

There seemed to be no response to that, and so Moira sat back, her shoulder resting lightly against Loghain's as they watched the flames in companionable silence.

"I want you to have it," she said, her hand brushing the hilt of the sword.

"What?" Loghain at first seemed confused as to what she meant, until he noticed her hand resting against Maric's sword. "No. Absolutely not."

"And why not?" she said, picking up the fine blade. "I already have a sword that suits me well. And you knew him, fought with him. If anyone should carry this blade, it is you. Take it."

"After everything that has happened, you think me worthy of Maric's sword?" Loghain stared incredulously at her. "Maric united Ferelden. I almost tore it apart."

Her eyes met Loghain's in the firelight. "You were his friend. He trusted you. He must have seen something in you that was worthy of that trust."

"And I have repaid him in fine form, haven't I?" He stood abruptly, turning his back to her. "No, Moira. You deserve that blade far more than I. You brought Ferelden back together after I nearly destroyed it. If anyone is Maric's worthy heir, it is you."

She was thankful that her blush was concealed by the darkness. "Such words carry weight coming from you. Thank you," she said. "But I do not believe you are so unworthy as you think. You were once a man Maric respected more than any other. Be that man again, the man he knew you to be."

"Why? Why does this matter so much to you?" He rounded on her, pale eyes blazing in the dim firelight. "Why do _I_ matter so much to you?"

"Because you are more than the sum of your mistakes!" she said heatedly. "Yes, you were wrong about many things. Yes, you made some dreadful decisions. But there is no one here –" she flung an arm out in the general direction of her companions – "who can claim that they have always done the right thing. Everyone here has made mistakes, everyone here has regrets. Even me." _Especially me_, she thought ruefully. "I refuse to believe that the poor decisions of a few months erase a lifetime of good deeds. You are a good man, Loghain. You just need to start acting like it."

"You don't know me, Moira." His voice was brittle and rough, and Moira realized that at some point in the past several minutes, they had moved closer together, so that he was now a mere arm's length away.

"I would like to," she said, taking a bold step closer, and reaching out to place her bare hand against his arm. "If you would let me."

Her breath caught in her chest as he inched towards her, his rugged, hawkish features cast in chiaroscuro in the flickering light of the pyre. His eyes held hers and did not waver, and she felt rather than saw him nudge closer, his nose mere inches from hers.

"Moira, this – "

"Hush," she whispered, and she lowered her gaze from his eyes to his lips. Her own lips were suddenly dry, and as she flitted her tongue across them, she heard him hiss, a sudden intake of breath so close she could feel the air move between them –

"Hey, you two! Whatever Grey Warden business is goin' on over there in the shadows can wait. We're ready to move and make camp. No one wants to sleep next to this sodding place, and I can't blame 'em!"

Moira jerked away from Loghain like a puppet whose strings had been tugged, and she mentally invoked every curse she knew, in every language, for that thrice-damned dense-as-bricks dwarf.

"Yes, of course," Loghain said briskly, as if nothing had happened. "Your pyre seems ready to burn itself out, and we needn't tarry here any longer."

"Yes, we should set camp soon." Still cursing Oghren for ruining whatever had happened between her and Loghain, she quickly gathered up the items from Cailan's chest. Loghain had begun moving back towards the rest of her companions, but she stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. When he turned around to face her, eyebrow cocked inquisitively, she thrust Maric's blade into his hands.

"This is yours," she said. "I won't take no for an answer." She began walking away before he could argue, moving into the light of the dying pyre where her companions waited for her.

Behind her, she heard him scoff in astonishment.

"You are a stubborn woman, you know that, don't you?"

She smiled as she left him behind in the shadows to wonder exactly what had changed between them.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ** And here is the promised second half of my marathon Ostagar chapter, this time with plot advancement! I don't have such a clear timeline for completing chapter 7, but rest assured I will get to work on it as soon as possible and hopefully it will be posted soon!

Another great big thank you to all my reviewers, followers, and readers! Your support truly matters - it's so heartening knowing that there are people out there who are as invested in this story, and in the adventure of Loghain and Moira, as I am! Hearing from each of you truly makes my day. And another big thanks to my fantastic beta EasternViolet, who keeps me on track and provides invaluable feedback.


	7. The Currency of War

_That drunken idiot. Damn him to the Void. Bugger him with a rusty mace. Damn it, damn it, damn it._

Moira lay wide awake in her bedroll, staring restlessly at the roof of her tent, trying to will her turbulent thoughts into submission. The party was camped a couple of miles north of Ostagar, in the lee of a rocky outcropping at the head of the valley, and few words had been exchanged by anyone as they set camp, still troubled by the ghosts of the dead. The melancholy of that cursed place hung over her soul like a shroud, but – as she replayed the events of the night over again in her head – she found herself dwelling more and more on what had happened with Loghain. Or, rather – thanks to the aforementioned buggered and damned dwarf – what had not happened with Loghain.

She had nearly kissed him. The memory of his arm, stiffening in surprise beneath her gentle touch, the low rumble of his voice sending a tremor of excitement through her blood, the closing distance between them, so close she could almost feel his breath against her – and then Oghren, ruining it all with his damned obliviousness. Moira tossed fitfully onto her side and punched her bedroll in a fit of pique. What would have happened if Oghren hadn't ruined the moment? Would she have kissed him?

_Yes_, her mind supplied absently. She would have. And, as she stared at the wall of her tent, she realized that she wanted to kiss him. Very much. She imagined what it would have been like – his lips against hers, perhaps his body too, if they had come together, if he had pulled her close, their armor clinking as his silverite plate came into contact with her white steel mail. The thought of it sent a shudder of longing through her blood, and she tossed over onto her other side with an agitated huff.

Where had _this_ come from? She supposed Wynne was right – she could no longer deny that she had formed something of a bond with the taciturn general. Over the course of the past few weeks, they had certainly become closer – she had gradually come to understand why he had done the things he had done, and he had moved beyond his initial defiant arrogance and had softened towards her, recognizing where he had gone wrong and seeking to make amends. But there was a far cry between accepting him as a comrade at arms, and wishing that Oghren had not interrupted what was rapidly becoming an intimate moment.

She tossed over again. It was ridiculous, all of it. She had managed to travel with Alistair and Zevran for months without feeling any inclination to sneak off into the shadows for illicit kisses like a young love-struck fool. She was a warrior, a Grey Warden! She had bigger things to worry about than an amorous moment with a man who remained an enigma to her in many ways, a moment that had likely only transpired because of the emotional onslaught of Ostagar and all the skeletons it had disturbed. And yet the ghost of that moment haunted her, a spectral whisper tickling at the back of her mind and prompting her to fill in the missing pieces, to imagine what might have happened if Oghren had remained silent. To imagine Loghain's lips on hers, his body against hers, his arms around her…

Moira rolled over with a growl. She envied the damned dwarf, who likely didn't sleep so much as he passed out. She could do with a drop or two of a strong drink herself right about now. Anything to calm her rioting thoughts. She was being silly and childish. Loghain had been perfectly cordial to her afterwards as they had set up camp, but that was all – he'd behaved as if nothing had happened. She had followed his cue: remaining friendly, but fully prepared to put the nonevent behind them, because nothing _had_ happened, and there was nothing _to_ put behind them. He could be a mature adult about it; so could she. And she was prepared to bet any sum of sovereigns that he slept contentedly in his tent, entirely untroubled by what had or had not transpired between them, because he was Loghain and he was a stern, commanding soldier, a man who did not allow trivialities to distract him from his mission.

And yet… she could have sworn that she had seen something in his eyes, in that moment before Oghren had ruined it all. Something besides his typical laconic reserve, or even his occasional wry humor. Something that mirrored her own present thoughts: a spark, an interest beyond that of ordinary comradeship. Was she just imagining that, too? What if she wasn't?

_Enough_. She rolled onto her belly, burying her face in her arms. She could chase these thoughts around in a circle like a mabari after its tail, and it would get her nowhere. She considered Loghain a friend, as odd as that was to acknowledge, and she could even admit that he was an attractive man – she recalled thinking as much the night of the Landsmeet, when she'd accidentally intruded on him in his room, half-clothed. But thinking that there was anything more to their relationship was absurd – the product of a fevered mind. She was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the short- and long-term stresses of battle, the Blight, and the scars of terrible memories both old and new. He had put their encounter behind him already, and so would she, and that would be an end to it.

Thus decided, she snuggled deeper into her bedroll, willed her mind to accept her entirely logical and rational conclusion, and bade herself to rest. Sleep, however, proved elusive, and when she finally drifted off into a restless slumber, the darkspawn that awaited her there seemed almost a welcome respite from her tumultuous thoughts.

* * *

><p>The morning dawned bright and early, and as Moira emerged from her tent, bleary-eyed and scarcely rested, she knew that they had a long day's march ahead of them if they wished to make it to Redcliffe within a week. She offered a silent prayer to the Maker that their way would not be barred by the darkspawn horde – although, she realized with a pang, if they did not encounter the darkspawn, then it would mean the horde had moved north, spreading a wider swath of destruction across Ferelden. All the more reason to make haste to Redcliffe, where Riordan had rallied the disparate armies she had gathered for the final push.<p>

She spied Loghain across the camp, expertly disassembling his tent and packing his things together for the march. Her stomach flipped over, leaving her feeling unsteady and anxious, and she sternly cursed herself, reminding her foolish body that she had resolved not to allow the… incident… with Loghain to affect her further. Deciding that idle hands were the enemy of the Maker, she set herself firmly to the task of packing up the camp, and once everything was loaded onto Bodahn's cart, she felt somewhat more settled, her equilibrium regained. When Loghain approached her, she felt no nervousness beyond another slight flutter in her belly, which she firmly refused to acknowledge.

"Are we for Redcliffe at last, then?" he asked her, falling in beside her at the head of the column as though he belonged there – which, she reflected, he probably did, as the only other among them who routinely led soldiers into battle. She was relieved, in a way, that he had gone straight to business – they were simply two Wardens, fighting the Blight. Comrades and friends, perhaps, but nothing more. That made things simpler.

"We are. Riordan sent out the call to the allies I've gathered that the time has come to honor their commitments. When we arrive at Redcliffe, the Circle mages, Dalish elves, and an army of dwarves from Orzammar will be waiting for us, along with all of the soldiers Ferelden could spare."

"It makes me uneasy, leaving our border unprotected," Loghain groused. He caught her glance askance at him and snorted. "Oh, don't give me that look. I know the Blight is our primary concern, and it must be stopped. It _will_ be stopped. But do not discount the notion that Orlais will seek to take advantage of Ferelden's crisis to make a move."

"We will cross _that_ bridge if and when we come to it, Loghain," Moira said patiently. "We cannot fight two battles at once."

He grunted in assent. "Of course you're right. It was a tactical error to divide our forces. I realize that now. I am only urging you to keep one eye firmly trained on our western flank. It would be a rather unpleasant surprise to find a legion of chevaliers at our doorstep while the army marches off to fight the darkspawn."

Moira frowned, scratching at her ear in mock confusion. "Wait. Did I hear that right? Did Loghain Mac Tir, scourge of the Orlesians, Hero of the River Dane, and all-around stubborn arse, just admit that he was wrong about something? Without prompting? Truly, this is a day the Maker has made! Let us rejoice and be glad!"

He scoffed and cast her a withering side-eyed glare, but she saw, to her satisfaction, that a glint of humor danced in his pale eyes. "I have been doing rather a lot of that lately, in case you hadn't noticed. Impertinent woman. However, my contrition has limits. I will not don sackcloth and ashes and crawl on my hands and knees along the Pilgrim's Path."

She laughed out loud at the image of Loghain clad in penitent's garb. "No, I don't suppose you would, although I would pay my weight in sovereigns to see such a sight." He snorted in amusement, and they lapsed into an amiable silence. The fluttering in Moira's belly returned, reminding her uncomfortably that she had not been in such proximity to Loghain since the night before. An agitated sigh escaped her before she could hold it in – why was her body betraying her like this? She had already decided that nothing was amiss between her and Loghain, and nothing had changed. And yet every time he neared her, she quaked like a nervous lass. If Loghain noticed anything amiss, however, he mercifully gave no indication, and she resolved to let the foolishness trouble her no further. She was merely stressed, and her newfound friendship with Loghain was a bright spot in an otherwise unremittingly dark few weeks; that was all it was. Once the battle had been joined, there would be no more time to dwell on such silliness.

The march was long, hot, and uneventful, and by the time they stopped to make camp, she was thoroughly worn out, and her earlier nerves had long since subsided into a weary exhaustion. She gratefully collapsed on the ground near her tent, tugging off her boots and unbuckling her armor, thankful that Leliana had volunteered to head into the woods with her bow to hunt for supper. The grass was cool and soft against her aching feet, and she longed to lie down and pillow herself into its lush comfort; she realized, as the fatigue rapidly overtook her, that she must have gotten far less sleep last night than she'd thought. However, she could hardly justify lazing away while the others prepared the fire and foraged for food, and so, reaching deep into her reserves of stamina, she staggered to her feet and into her tent, at least determined to get out of her oppressive armor.

When she re-emerged, clad now in a simple linen shirt and trousers, she saw Zevran expertly dressing a small roe deer that had no doubt fallen prey to Leliana's arrow. Her stomach rumbling in anticipation, she made her way to the campfire to join her fellows.

"Oh, there you are!" Leliana exclaimed. "I think you will enjoy supper tonight. Venison stew, prepared with some herbs I was able to gather along the way. Not as many as I had hoped, but the darkspawn corruption has tainted so much of the land."

"That sounds perfect. Thank you, Leliana. Your skill with a bow has been a gift from the Maker."

Leliana flushed at the praise. "I am happy to contribute in whatever way I can." She handed Moira a basketful of herbs, which Moira, eager to help out, began to strip apart.

She felt a pair of soft hands move through her hair, loosening the braid, as she sat and worked. "Your hair is so beautiful," Leliana cooed. "I have wanted to play with it for ages. Will you let me?"

Moira laughed, her fingers working at the stalks. "If you like," she said. "I imagine it's rather sweaty and dusty from the road, though." She felt a peace settle over her as Leliana's fingers worked through her thick hair down to her scalp. The simplicity of the domestic task of preparing the herbs, the pleasure of sitting back and letting someone fuss over her hair, just like her mother used to do – it was almost enough to make her forget her present circumstances and the ever-present anxiety that haunted her dreams and waking moments alike.

"You know, you really should try another style sometime," Leliana suggested. "You are from a noble family. In Orlais, a noblewoman's hair is reflective of her station. The more important you are, the more elegant your style must be – I once saw a Grand Duchess who had a bouffant nearly twice as high as her head, and throughout it she had displayed a variety of gemstones, feathers, and other baubles – I believe she even had a gold-embossed fan stuck in the top!" She giggled at the memory. "Perhaps nothing quite so outrageous for you, but your hair is so full and luxurious – it would look so lovely curled and swept up, perhaps pinned in place with a ruby pendant to accent the dark red undertones? And with just a few tendrils falling across your cheeks? Oh yes, you would look so lovely!"

"Moira is pretty enough without your Orlesian ostentations." Loghain's voice sent a sudden, violent jolt through her, and she started in surprise – she had not even noticed him approach, so absorbed she was in her task and in Leliana's ministrations. "A Fereldan woman does not require such preening to be beautiful." Moira's face burned hot – had Loghain just called her _pretty_? Beautiful, even?

"I never said she did," Leliana protested. "And I am Fereldan too, you know."

"Bah," Loghain scoffed. "You may have been born here, but your heart is in Orlais. You speak so longingly of their frills and fripperies that you no doubt grew accustomed to in the salons of Val Royeaux."

"Not everything is about nationality, you know," Leliana replied calmly. "Pretty hair transcends all borders."

Loghain snorted loudly. "That… atrocity you just described is hardly what I would call 'pretty hair.' A woman does not require excessive ornamentation or garish trinkets to accentuate her beauty. She is either pretty or she is not."

"This is true. Look at Moira," Leliana agreed. Moira felt the heat rising to her face, and knew it must be a particular shade of crimson right about now. Were they blithely discussing her "beauty" right in front of her? Was _Loghain_? "I was merely making the point that I would love to be able to prepare her for a fancy ball. If she is so lovely dressed in mail and with her hair pulled back into a warrior's braid, how lovely would she be dressed in the finest silks and with her hair styled like a queen?"

"Only an Orlesian would be thinking of fancy balls and fine silks on the eve of the greatest battle of the age," Loghain muttered disdainfully. Leliana sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes as she stood up, collecting the basket of herbs Moira had prepared.

"Ah, you are impossible, Teryn Loghain!" she exclaimed. "Someday, the battles will be over, Maker willing! And then there is no shame in celebrating with the finer things in life. But you would probably wear that oversized suit of armor even to a victory ball. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen you out of it."

"Perhaps that is because we are at war," Loghain ground out with exaggerated patience. "With the darkspawn. In case you had forgotten."

"War, war, war! That is all you can think of! What will you do when the war is over, I wonder?" Shooting him a mischievous but significant look, Leliana traipsed away towards the fire, where Zevran was putting the finishing touches on the deer that would soon become their supper.

Her face still burning hot, Moira chanced a glance at Loghain, who appeared entirely nonplussed. If he had intended his comments about her looks as direct flattery, he showed no sign of it. Running a trembling hand through her hair, ostensibly to smooth it out after Leliana's ministrations, she took a steadying breath and refocused her attention on Loghain, who studied her passively.

"You shouldn't be so rude to Leliana, you know," she chided. "She is a sweet girl. And she's actually nice to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the group."

Loghain harrumphed. "I was not rude to her. I said nothing untrue. I think I have been rather restrained in my dealings with her, considering she is an Orlesian spy."

Moira sighed in exasperation. "She is not an Orlesian spy _anymore_, Loghain! People _can_ change, you know."

"Can they?" He regarded her steadily. "You seem very invested in this notion for some reason. The reformed Orlesian bard turned Chantry holy woman. The fallen hero who betrayed his country, now become a Grey Warden." He chuckled darkly. "I'm starting to wonder if you wouldn't give the Archdemon a second chance, were it to ask for one."

"I highly doubt the Archdemon is capable of redemption. Do you believe the same of yourself?"

He continued to regard her with a curious gleam in his eyes. "I suppose I should not be so arrogant as to place my misdeeds alongside those of a fallen god, no." His expression held nothing out of the ordinary, his face as indecipherable as ever; and still Moira was unprepared to meet his eyes, lest her face blossom into a scarlet bloom all over again.

She was being ridiculous. An offhanded, indirect compliment from Loghain Mac Tir, and she was as pitiful as a fumbling, besotted milkmaid! She mentally shook herself and sternly told her nerves to settle down. For the Maker's sake, she was more composed when facing a band of darkspawn.

"Well, I still think you should apologize to Leliana," she said, as much to redirect the conversation away from Loghain – and whatever his attitudes towards her might be – as anything else. "She means well. I know she can be very… Orlesian… but she can't help that. She didn't ask for her mother to pack her up and move her there, you know."

"Did her mother force her into a career in espionage, as well?" he muttered darkly. At Moira's unamused glare, he relented. "Oh, all right, fine. I am sure I will have ample opportunity to make nice with your little friend later. I suppose she is bearable enough for an Orlesian, after all."

"How generous of you."

"Your sarcasm is neither needed nor appreciated," he grumbled, but she heard the undercurrent of wry amusement beneath his surly tones, and she grinned at him in response, which earned her a "hmph" of bemused disdain. She realized she really _was_ learning to distinguish the meanings behind each inflection of his various "hmphs" and harrumphs.

"You know, I think you are capable of communicating more through grunts than most people can through words," she said. That, predictably, earned her a righteous scowl.

"I do not grunt."

"You're not serious?" She laughed, enjoying his deepening frown. "You growl more than Dane does."

When he harrumphed in reply, she burst into laughter.

"Oh, yes, very well, mock me if you must," he said. "If I do, occasionally, 'grunt' as you say, it is because I am confronted with such foolishness that it is not worth the words it would take to respond."

"Oh, relax," she said, through the dying spasms of her laughter. "I'm only teasing you. You're quite fun to tease, actually. You're so dreadfully serious all the time."

"Yes, well, I am not like your Antivan assassin. I do not find everything in the world to be a grand joke for my personal amusement."

She shrugged. "Zevran is the way he is because otherwise I suppose he'd go mad, wouldn't he? How else could he make peace with taking lives for a living?"

"It is not an easy thing." Loghain was serious again, his gaze fixed now on the erstwhile assassin, who was busy cutting the deer into stew sized chunks while Leliana added the herbs to the pot over the fire. "You cannot become so hardened to it that you lose sight of the value of a life. But neither can you allow yourself to be so affected by each loss that your compassion paralyzes you into inaction."

"But what happens when you look behind you and all you see are corpses?" She thought of all the carnage she had left in her wake in the past year – the blood mages who had defied her in Kinloch Hold, the dwarves loyal to Bhelen Aeducan whom she'd been forced to kill in Orzammar, the numerous street thugs, mercenaries, and cutthroats in Denerim who had unwisely chosen to provoke a confrontation with her, and – worst of all – the loyal soldiers of Ferelden whose only crime had been to end up on the other side of a civil war. "How can you justify the cost when it runs into the hundreds, or even thousands, of lives?"

"The currency of war is life," he said grimly. "You pay it, and hope that the outcome was worth the price."

"That seems easy to say when it is not our lives that have been offered as payment," she said, the memories of faraway places and the lonely deaths of so many intruding on her thoughts.

"It is a reality that every warrior must learn to accept, if he wishes to keep his sanity." She knew that they were no longer talking, even hypothetically, about Zevran. "He must be close enough to his soldiers to understand the importance of what he is risking, but detached enough to see them as pieces on a chessboard, which can and must be sacrificed to win the war."

"That's monstrous." She shuddered at the ghastly logic, but also because she knew it to be true.

"I never said it wasn't."

No response seemed appropriate, and so she joined him in silence, watching the stew now merrily bubbling away as it cooked over the fire. She mused again over her strange kinship with this man, who had gone from being her enemy – moving his chess pieces around the board with the sole purpose of ending her – to her friend, with whom she now shared an intimate moment before the campfire. Her thoughts returned to the night before, to a similar moment of silent companionship, interrupted before it could perhaps have become something more.

She chanced a glance over at Loghain. He sat quietly, his shoulders sagging forward, as though the weight of the world pressed heavily upon him. He'd removed his gauntlets before approaching her and Leliana, and his bare hands rested against his knees, the fingers of his right hand idly rubbing at a spot of dirt that had splattered onto the gleaming armor. The urge to reach over and take his hand in hers was nearly overwhelming. She had taken his hand last night, before Oghren had interrupted them, but he had been fully armored, and all she had felt against her skin was cold metal. She wondered what his hands themselves would feel like – so large and imposing, so much bigger than hers. Were they callused in the same places hers were, from the long practice of a lifetime of swordsmanship, and rough to the touch? Were they warm? Was his caress gentle? Or had he forgotten how to be gentle with anything, even a woman?

She dimly remembered that his wife had died many years ago. She recalled a few occasions, when she had been stuck in a drawing room in Denerim with other daughters of the nobility while their parents met to discuss politics, that the subject of Loghain's remarriage had come up. Rumors were constantly circulating over whether the Teryn of Gwaren would take a new wife. Becoming a teryna would have been a dream come true for many of the young, vapid girls who had tittered away in those elegant chambers, while Moira had languished in boredom and wished more than anything to be outside with Fergus, doing literally anything else. Such ladies were not actually attracted to Loghain, of course – he was far older than all of them – but none of them had expected to be attracted to their future husbands, anyway, so why not aim for a higher title than being the lady wife of some corpulent bann, wasting away one's life on a small holding in the farmlands?

Moira, of course, had never joined in on such conversations. She had always emphatically refused to engage in any discussions with her father over potential future mates, and every time he gingerly attempted to raise the subject, she'd insisted that she would find her _own_ husband, thank you very much. It had seemed so simple at the time – she had trained, with Fergus, in the arts of war, and eventually she would lead Highever's forces in some battle or other, for the glory of the king. There, she would meet the handsome young son of some arl or bann; a sturdy, valiant man who was as comfortable in a suit of armor and a saddle as he was in a Denerim palace. He would be impressed by her skill at arms, and she by his lack of foppish pretense; they would fall in love, and the marriage would take place in Highever. She would hang up her sword, put away her suit of armor, and leave behind her life as a shield-maiden to retire to her new husband's bannorn, where she would raise their children in just the same kind of loving home as she had grown up in herself. It had been a good dream, and her father, as exasperated as he might have been to have all of his overtures rejected, had never seriously attempted to dissuade her. After all, he had married a woman he loved, and so had Fergus – why should his daughter too not get the chance at her happy ending? And then Howe had come to Highever, and her dream had finally died, in fire and blood and the poisoned chalice of the Grey Wardens.

"Moira?" Loghain's voice, surprisingly gentle, brought her out of her reverie. "Are you all right?"

"Of course," she lied. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"You're crying."

Alarmed, she reached up to her face, and found her cheeks moist with unconsciously shed tears. She wiped them away vigorously, embarrassed and angry with herself that she had shown such weakness in front of Loghain, of all people.

"It's nothing." Her voice came out far harsher than she'd intended. "I'm fine. Just… memories that should not have been stirred."

"Hey." He reached over to her, and she discovered that his hands _were_ warm, and they _were_ callused in all the same places, and he _was_ capable of being gentle, as he cradled her much smaller hand in his own. "Never be ashamed of your grief. It is what makes us human." He sighed, and her breath caught in her throat as he softly moved his thumb across the back of her wrist. "You cannot let it overwhelm you, of course. But if you trap it inside, hide it away and refuse to release it from time to time, it will consume you from within." His voice carried enough of a tinge of bitterness that she knew he spoke from experience.

She sniffed, her sorrow ebbing away as his thumb stroked rhythmically across her skin. She stared at their entwined hands, his so large and rough next to hers, and, daring greatly, she squeezed his fingers in her own, a gentle pressure that drew a hiss of surprise from him. She looked up at him, then, and there was no ambiguity in his pale blue eyes tonight; there was curiosity, and warmth, and –

"Uhm." A delicate, accented voice coughed gently, and – _not again_ – Moira whipped her head around in frustration to face a decidedly abashed Leliana, who – unlike Oghren – seemed fully aware that she was interrupting something. She at least had the good grace to look ashamed. Moira's heart panged as she felt Loghain release her hand unceremoniously, each of them drawing away from the other, the moment lost.

"I'm sorry," Leliana said gingerly. "But the stew is ready. Everyone else, um, has already served themselves. It is just the two of you who have not eaten." In other words, Moira thought darkly, her nosy friends were wondering what exactly was going on between she and Loghain, so absorbed in each other that they had forgotten about supper.

She sighed irritably, determined not to kill the messenger. "Thank you, Leliana," she said, her tone insinuating anything but gratitude. "Maker forbid Loghain or I should starve."

Once again, he was politely cordial to her as they ventured over to the fire and filled their bowls with venison stew. Once again, he behaved much as he had over the past few days – friendly, but reserved, as if nothing had happened. And once again, as Moira devoured her stew (which _was_ quite nice – she would have to properly thank Leliana later, when her irritation had abated), her thoughts were consumed by a succession of images depicting what might have happened had they not been so rudely intruded upon. As she finished her supper and prepared to bed down for the night, he, once again bid her a good night – entirely cordially, and amiably, and politely, of course. But nothing more.

Once again, she tossed and turned in her bedroll, sleepless and agitated. This time, she made no effort to lie to herself, or pretend that she was fabricating something out of nothing. But whether that something was only present in her own heart – that remained entirely a mystery to her.

Tossing over with a violence that startled even Dane, sleeping at the foot of her bedroll, she lay glaring at her tent roof for the second night in a row, bidding sleep to come, and cursing it when it failed to obey her command. At least, she thought with no small amount of black humor, they were less than a week away from Redcliffe, and then she would hardly have time to worry about her _feelings_ for Loghain. Even a Blight of darkspawn, led by a demonic, corrupted Old God, was preferable to sorting out the matters of her heart.

Somewhat amused by her own mordant humor, Moira at last fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep, where, as always, the darkspawn awaited her in her dreams.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ** And this is probably the fastest turnaround I've ever had for a brand new chapter! I would caution you against expecting a chapter a week as a matter of routine, as my muse isn't usually so compliant, but hey... I'm gonna take advantage of it while it lasts! Once again, a big giant THANK YOU to all of you who have reviewed, followed, favorited, and read this story. I love hearing from all of you - getting an email that I have a new review, or a favorite/follow, truly does make my day. Thank you, thank you, thank you! And of course much gratitude as always to my awesome beta EasternViolet, who continues to be awesome.

Next up, our crew will finally make it to Redcliffe... where, as we all know, a very important conversation is about to happen...


	8. The Only Way

Redcliffe Castle loomed in the distance, standing as a solitary sentinel against the unsettling aura of doom that shrouded the land like a fog. Signs of the darkspawn's presence were everywhere: the swaths of dead, trampled grass that marred the otherwise-green hills like a scar; the oily, blackened leaves that hung listlessly from tainted trees; the oppressive weight of the air, hanging heavy and funereal and utterly still, an unnatural silence interrupted only by the buzzing of insects that fed on the desecrated dead.

Moira's sleep had gotten progressively less restful with every night they neared Redcliffe, until at last she had spent the entire previous night tossing over and over again in agitation, never once fully slipping into unconsciousness. She recalled the undead horrors from her last visit to Redcliffe, their bodies shambling unerringly forward, thinking and feeling nothing, and wondered if this was how it felt to be an animated corpse, not quite living and not quite dead. She moved forward without a thought, her body remembering to put one foot in front of the other, running on reserves of stamina and adrenaline that her mind could not even consciously summon. She wondered how long she could keep going like this, how long her body could function independently while her mind floated somewhere above her, curiously detached from its physical presence, as if it remained stubbornly in the Fade while her body moved through the waking world alone.

The intervening days and lack of sleep had only further complicated her already-thorny relationship with Loghain. He had continued to be friendly and solicitous to her, even kind: he often greeted her with a smile, albeit a reserved half-smile that only just reached his eyes, and he made a point of tacitly supporting her when he sensed her strength was faltering; a word of reassurance here, a show of solidarity there. She found herself leaning on him, at least figuratively, more and more as they drew closer to Redcliffe and her restiveness grew, and before long she had taken to confiding in him entirely at meals and before bedding down for the night, their brief but insightful conversations offering her a spot of solace amidst the crushing weight of her burdens. Her feelings for him continued to complicate and bedevil her; just when she was certain that a moment was upon them, a moment like the ones they'd shared at Ostagar and before the campfire the night after, he would pull away, almost imperceptibly, and it would vanish into the ether. She had caught glimpses of the others, doing their best to pretend not to notice her and Loghain deep in conversation night after night, but she knew better; she knew they gossiped, and wondered, and mused over the exact nature of the relationship between the two Grey Wardens. She would have had no answers for them, had they asked directly; she was as perplexed and intrigued as they were.

The morning before, she had made her way to a small stream near their campground, keen to wash the grime of her restless night from her before they got under way. She had stripped to her linen shirt and a soft, loose pair of trousers and had padded towards the banks of the stream, eager for her bath, when she spotted him: crouched over the water, his shirtless back to her, slowly scraping a vicious-looking razor neatly across his jaw. Her breath caught in her throat and she froze, standing there, watching his slow movements in a mesmerized trance; the gentle play of his muscles across his back as his arm moved, his wrist flicking delicately to bring the savage blade smoothly across the contours of his rugged face, the razor held firm in his large, steady hand. It was entirely different from the first time she had seen him in such a state of dishabille, the evening of his Joining; then, his lack of clothing had merely been embarrassing and uncomfortable, and though she had objectively noted that he was an attractive man, she had spared no further thought for his appearance, as angry and unsettled as she was after the debacle of the Landsmeet. But the sight of him kneeling before the river, his strong, firm muscles interplaying in a symphony of silent strength, sent a rush of hot blood coursing through her veins, her nerves tingling with electricity. Time slipped away as she stood there, silently watching him, until he set his razor aside and leaned over, gathering a handful of water from the stream and splashing it across his face. He stood, and his bemused voice echoed through the glade and shattered her trance.

"If you were waiting for me to finish before you perform your morning ablutions, I appreciate the courtesy. Next time, however, you might wish to announce your presence sooner. I dislike being silently watched in the woods. An old habit from the days of the occupation, I imagine." He turned towards her, affording her a view of his bare torso, the taut muscles rippling beneath a modest furring of coarse black hair, as he made his way past her and back towards the camp, smirking wryly as he tugged his shirt over his head. It was several moments after he'd disappeared through the trees before she could move again, her heart hammering in her breast and her pulse thrumming. She'd been thankful for the stark, icy cold of the stream.

The incident had unnerved her all that day, but she could no longer determine which reactions were a result of her deepening fatigue and which were genuinely felt. She knew that Loghain stirred something in her that none of her other companions did – indeed, that no other man ever had – but she also knew that she was at a real risk of wildly misinterpreting otherwise mundane, innocuous interactions. The chances that he might have engaged in any of his behavior with anything other than platonic camaraderie in mind were extremely slim; he was old enough to be her father, for Maker's sake, and indeed he had a daughter a few years older than she. They had come to a peace; perhaps he regarded her as a friend. Everything else could only be the fever dream of a weary mind, pushed beyond its limits.

She shook her head hard, clearing away the cobwebs that gathered in the crawlspaces of her mind. They were on the outskirts of Redcliffe Village even now; the sign of darkspawn presence was all around them, but the fiends were either dead or had been driven away by the armies that had recently bivouacked here. They must all now be gathered up within the castle walls, waiting only for her and Loghain to arrive, to lead the charge into the darkspawn ranks and draw the Archdemon into battle. An end, at last, after all these months. She didn't know whether to feel terrified or relieved.

"Are you all right? You have seemed out of sorts for a few days now." Loghain's words were quietly spoken, so that none of the others could hear and mistake his concern for doubt in her abilities. She glanced over at him, his brows furrowed in worry, and smiled; never could she have imagined Loghain Mac Tir capable of such sensitivity.

"I'll be fine. I'm just tired, that's all." He bowed his head in a silent acknowledgement of her answer, though she could see in his eyes that her words had not quite convinced him.

"It has been a long and grueling road," he agreed. "But when we get to Redcliffe, you need to rest. The coming battle will demand every ounce of strength and cunning you can muster, and then it will demand even more. You cannot hope to prevail if you are too exhausted to think or act clearly." He kept his voice low, but his tone brooked no argument.

"I know. You're right. But… I can't help but think that I won't truly be able to rest – I mean, really, _truly_ rest – until it is all over," she said. "Everything that has happened in my life since that night at Highever has been in preparation for this moment. Everything I've done, all the allies I've gained and all the people I've killed… it's all been for this." She looked up at Redcliffe Castle, a lone bulwark against the dangers of the frontier in remote western Ferelden, the place from which they would mount their last stand against the darkspawn. "And what if it's all been for nothing? If we fail here, the Blight will consume Ferelden. Everything we know and love will be burnt to ashes and dust."

"Moira." His voice was firmer this time as he reached over to grasp her arm, squeezing her through their armor. Despite her soul-crushing exhaustion, a thrill raced through her blood at the contact. "You must not give into despair! It is a more dangerous enemy than all the darkspawn lurking in the Deep Roads could ever be! I have seen mighty armies laid low, not by the strength of their enemies' blades or the sheer number of their foes, but by their own lack of resolve."

His words were compelling, but they did not succeed in fully banishing the doubt that gnawed at the back of her mind. "And what of Ostagar? Was the battle lost because you lacked resolve? Or because the darkspawn were simply too numerous? However many darkspawn were at Ostagar, there will be even more now – along with the possibility of the Archdemon."

He pursed his lips together in frustration. "Ostagar was a disaster in the making from the moment Cailan decided to throw caution to the wind and make his bid for eternal glory. He wasn't even willing to wait for all of Ferelden's soldiers to arrive – and thank the Maker for that, at least, or we doubtless would have lost even more than we did." A strange expression crossed his face, briefly, but then it was gone as if it had never been there at all. "But Ostagar's follies will not be repeated. This time you have secured other allies – the mighty dwarven armies, a band of Dalish hunters, the entire Circle of Magi rather than the paltry few Irving and his templar handler saw fit to send to Cailan." He regarded her seriously, with a look of deep respect. "And, most importantly, you are not Cailan. You are not a glory hound or a fool. You are a brave warrior and a cunning strategist, and with you at the head of our army, we actually have a chance."

She might have dismissed the words as meaningless puffery from anyone else, but Loghain was not a man inclined to inflate his opinions of others, either out of a need to flatter or a desire to ingratiate. Coming from him, she was almost inclined to believe them.

"Thank you," she said quietly, and placed a hand over his gauntlet that still rested on her arm. "I mean it. Thank you for supporting me. You did not have to…" She trailed into silence, unable to put into words how much their changing relationship, from foe to companion to friend, had meant to her.

He grunted, and she sensed an undercurrent of abashment as he withdrew his hand from her arm, though not without a final, almost imperceptible squeeze.

"It's nothing," he said, and she smiled to herself, because it was not nothing, not at all.

It was plain, as they made their way past Redcliffe Village and through the narrow hills towards the castle, that a battle had been fought not long ago: the bodies of darkspawn, as hideous and deformed in death as they were in life, littered the grass, although the bodies of the fallen men were nowhere to be found – they had already been treated to proper funerals, then. At last, as they reached the massive gates to the keep, she spotted a small company of guards, wearing Eamon's livery. The gate guard, a brawny man with a large, droopy mustache, put his arm over his chest and bowed his head in a martial salute.

"Greetings, Wardens. I was told to keep a watch for you," he said. "The arl requests your presence right away. He must inform you of the latest developments." As the guard hustled them inside the castle's courtyard and motioned for two of his comrades to close the massive gates behind them, Moira allowed a wave of irritation to wash over her at Eamon's imperious summons. She supposed she was being unfair; the arling of Redcliffe _was_ his domain, after all, and it was only proper that he should oversee any affairs that affected it, especially something as momentous as a darkspawn incursion. But she could not entirely banish the sour taste in her mouth whenever she thought of the way Eamon had insinuated himself so thoroughly into the machinations of the past few months and positioned himself as her advisor, when all along he'd merely seen a chance to place a more malleable king on the throne of Ferelden, one whom he could bend to his will. She recalled, with a bitter distaste, that he hadn't even bothered to mention Alistair in passing after her friend had stormed away at the Landsmeet. Apparently, once Alistair could no longer fulfill his prophesized role, Eamon had had no more use for him. He had been cool to her generally since the conclusion of the Landsmeet – whether he blamed her more for Alistair's disappearance, or for sparing Loghain's life and preserving Anora's rule, she could not say for certain.

But engaging in a petty quibble with an ally would not do, not on the eve of battle. And so Moira steeled herself as the guard opened the great doors to the castle, and escorted her, Loghain, and the rest of their party into the grand hall, where she spotted Eamon, Teagan, and a bevy of other advisors, soldiers, and representatives. A sudden hush fell over the chattering emissaries as Moira led the Grey Warden party into the lavishly decorated hall, and she greeted Eamon with a cordial nod.

"Ah, Warden Cousland. It is good that you are here." Eamon's greeting was, if not warm, then at least polite; but there was a definite coolness to his gaze that gave evidence to the chill between them. He turned to her fellow Warden, and there he made little attempt to hide his distaste.

"Loghain." The word was spoken more as an acknowledgement compelled by social protocol than a true greeting, and Moira could sense, in the tensing of his body next to hers, that Loghain shared the sentiment.

"Eamon," he returned levelly. If he wanted to bait the other man further, he at least had the good grace and sense not to do so now, for which Moira was grateful.

"Your guard informed me of your summons," she said without prelude. "I admit, Arl Eamon, I expected to face more resistance reaching Redcliffe. Has the horde not yet emerged? I should have thought to fight more on the road from the south."

"Ah, yes, about that." Moira stiffened; Eamon spoke in the tones of a man who knew that his next words would not be well received. "It seems that we were… mistaken. The horde is not here after all."

Moira stared at Eamon, her incomprehension mounting. "Not here? But we marched from Denerim on reports that the horde had been sighted west of Redcliffe! In truth, I feared we might arrive late, and find the town under siege." How could the darkspawn not be here at _all_? And, more importantly… if they were not here, where _were_ they?

"I'm afraid the darkspawn besieging Redcliffe must have merely been a small group, broken off from the main horde." Eamon, to his credit, had the grace to sound contrite.

"But – " Moira shot a confused glance between Eamon and Teagan, who had wisely decided to remain silent and let his brother deliver the bad news – "the horde is huge. There are only so many places it could be, and we have just traversed the length of Ferelden, and we encountered no more than a few isolated pockets. If they are not in Redcliffe, where are they?"

"Your Warden companion Riordan has gone out scouting, to determine the answer to that very question," Eamon said. "He left early yesterday morning. With any luck, he should return to us later this evening and report his findings. Meanwhile, I do have good tidings for you: your ancient treaties have been honored, and your allies have all arrived, none the worse for wear. The dwarven armies number several dozen companies, and they have taken over the barracks, much to the chagrin of my guardsmen." He chuckled at his own joke. "The Dalish elves, meanwhile, have preferred to camp outside the grounds, in the woods. Odd folk, but they seem capable enough. And the Circle mages have been granted quarters in the castle itself. The rest of Ferelden's forces have established a military camp a few miles north of the village. Once Riordan returns with news of the horde, we can send out the call."

The horde was not here. After the long, brutal slog from Denerim – and somewhere along the way they'd missed the horde? Moira balanced on a knife's edge of tension as her eyes drifted across the great hall. The last time she'd seen this chamber, Connor, Eamon's magic-sensitive boy, had been in thrall to a desire demon, and had been forcing his mother and his uncle to caper about the room like court jesters for his own amusement. Now, any sign that anything untoward had ever occurred in the castle had been scrubbed away, and bright banners hung cheerfully about the walls, as though such evil could merely be papered over, hidden beneath a façade of glory.

She suddenly realized that Eamon was gazing at her in equal parts expectation and confusion, clearly awaiting an answer to a question she had not heard.

"Of course we would like something to eat, but more importantly, we need to rest," Loghain responded for her, and she thanked him for rescuing her from her own waning attention. "Not all of us were able to ride from Denerim in the comfort of stately coaches." Clearly, the limits of Loghain's civility towards Eamon had been reached, and he fixed the arl with a surly glare. "Our way has been long and difficult, and I would appreciate if we were shown to our rooms. I am certain your hospitality will be generous to a fault."

Eamon opened his mouth to retort, but Teagan smoothly interjected, his voice calm and conciliatory. "Of course. You must be thoroughly exhausted. And little of substance can be accomplished before Riordan returns to us, anyway. Follow me. I will show you to your rooms – my brother was kind enough to reserve the entire east wing of the second floor for your party." As Moira followed Teagan towards the east wing of the castle, she felt a burgeoning sense of gratitude towards Loghain, who knew how tired she was, and also how unwilling she was to admit it to herself, let alone to Eamon. She was also grateful for Teagan's calm presence as he'd skillfully soothed the tensions that had been rising between Loghain and Eamon.

Teagan opened a door to a modestly appointed yet cozily comfortable looking room, and gestured inside. "This will be your room, Moira." He gave her a kind smile, which she returned earnestly. "It is good to see you again, truly."

"And you as well, Teagan." He was noticeably cooler towards Loghain, but nevertheless entirely civil, as he indicated the room directly across the hall. She assumed the rest of her companions were likewise pleased with their accommodations, but she could not spare the energy to find out; she had no sooner stripped herself of her armor and shaken out her hair than she had collapsed, utterly spent, into the bed. She was asleep before she hit the pillow.

* * *

><p>She was vaguely aware, through a muddled haze, of her shoulder moving, being pulled. The Fade glimmered around her, wondrous and strange, and yet she could no longer move forward as the force tugged at her shoulder again. A familiar voice, muffled and muted as though she heard it from the bottom of a well, called to her. It was asking her something, and her shoulder tugged again. Again the voice, telling her –<p>

"Moira, wake up." Her eyes snapped open, her mind tumbling over itself in disorientation as it tried to reorder the pieces of the world that fell into place as the Fade diminished into a forgotten wisp of memory. Red walls, lush furs carpeting the floor, a rich green comforter. A shaded canopy, a well-built nightstand. She blinked. Redcliffe. The castle – her room at Eamon's castle. She had arrived in Redcliffe, Teagan had shown her to her room, and then –

Turning over, blinking the remnants of sleep out of her eyes, she came face to face with Loghain, whose ice blue eyes regarded her with a strange mix of concern and amusement.

"Yes, I'm here," she said, realizing as she said it that it was a rather silly and obvious thing to say. He gave her one of those wry half-smiles of his that she so enjoyed.

"Indeed. Though for a while there, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to pull you out of the Fade. You were dug in like a deer tick."

She yawned, the stale feeling in her mouth evidence of her long slumber. "That's a charming analogy," she said.

"Yes, well, there's a reason I became a soldier, not a poet." He picked up her steel coat of mail, as if weighing it in his hands. Rubbing a tired hand across her eyes, she stretched slowly and curled over to the edge of the bed.

"I assume you didn't wake me up just so you could fondle my chain mail," she said, realizing at once the extremely awkward phrasing her still-half-asleep mind had conjured. She flushed hot and, in an attempt to distract him from thinking too deeply about fondling her chain mail, rose quickly from the bed, pretending to rifle through her pack.

"I can assure you, Moira, that should I wish to fondle your chain mail, I will arrange a far less contrived excuse to do so." When she flushed an even deeper red, he rewarded her with a wry, knowing smile. "However, you are indeed correct. I did not come here to examine your armor. I came to let you know that Riordan has returned, and that he has requested to meet with us at once."

Riordan – he'd returned from his scouting mission, then, and presumably had news on the whereabouts of the horde. As the last cobwebs of her restful sleep blew away, her mind focused on the details of the looming battle with a piercing clarity. Loghain had been right – she had needed that sleep badly. She already felt sharper, quicker, more refreshed. Some of her confidence that had been leached away over the long, hot, tireless days and the restive, haunted, sleepless nights began to return.

"Of course," she said briskly. She nodded to Loghain, who met her gaze briefly, but meaningfully; he could see just as well as she how necessary her long rest had been. "Just let me tidy myself up."

Loghain nodded. "Then I will wait outside Riordan's room. His is just at the end of the hall." He left as silently as he'd entered, and Moira, feeling rejuvenated for the first time in weeks, quickly stripped, pulling on a set of clean, fresh clothes from her pack. She would have preferred to take a bath, but if Riordan was waiting on them now, she did not have the time; she would have to take one later tonight. She smiled to herself, as she found a sprig of peppermint in her victuals pack and popped it into her mouth to rid herself of the foul taste of sleep – few people would see the point in bathing right before undertaking a hard, hot march, culminating in a bloody battle. But she was feeling good, and a bath would make her feel better. Who knew – maybe a hot bath would make the difference in morale between defeating the Archdemon and losing everything. Amused by her own dark joke, and in a good mood for the first time in days, she left her room and rejoined Loghain at the end of the hall.

"You look chipper," he noted wryly.

"I feel chipper. Oh, the difference a good night's sleep can make! Or, well, day's, in this case."

He snorted in amusement. "Indeed. Now let's see what this Riordan has to say."

They entered Riordan's room, and the lean Orlesian Grey Warden greeted them with a wan smile. "Ah. You made it. It is good to see you both again."

"And you as well, Riordan," she said, though she imagined Loghain did not share that sentiment overmuch. "Eamon told us that you'd gone scouting to determine the movements of the horde. I take it you found them."

"Indeed." His face was grim-set. "I am afraid the news does not bode well. It appears that the horde has made its push north after all – and it is headed straight for Denerim."

"Denerim?" Moira's jaw dropped in astonishment, the news slamming into her gut like a battering ram. Loghain's expression, to an untrained observer, appeared unchanged; but Moira knew him well enough by now to notice the tightening of his jaw, the unconscious twitch at the corner of his eye, and she knew the ill tidings affected him deeply as well.

"I'm afraid so."

"But – " Moira struggled to regain control of her spiraling disbelief and apprehension as her previous good mood melted utterly away. "We were just _in_ Denerim! How could the reports be so wrong? How could we have missed them on the way?"

"It seems that they pushed east past Redcliffe, but then swung north – that is why you did not encounter them, if you came from the southern roads. We have wasted much time with this unnecessary diversion to the west, and I fear many lives will be lost," Riordan said bitterly. "But when Eamon presented me with the reports of the increasing attacks on Redcliffe – the first such concentrated attacks outside the Korcari Wilds – I believed that they were indicative of a greater push. I was wrong."

"Eamon – that glory seeking son of a bitch." Loghain glowered, his brows knit together in a baleful expression of distaste. "He wanted to ensure that history duly recorded his part in the battle, no doubt. And now how many will pay the price for his arrogance?" Moira shot a glance over at Loghain, as if to reprimand him, to tell him that now was not the time for petty political grievances… but she could not find the words to do so. This had been a disastrous mistake, and it had cost them precious days of preparation and marching. And if the horde attacked an unprotected Denerim –

"If they are already on the march, there is no way we can catch them in time – not even if we drive our armies to the limit!" A sick feeling settled into the pit of Moira's stomach. All of those people, and with only the city guard between them and a sea of darkspawn…

"No," Riordan agreed grimly. "We will not reach Denerim before the horde does, that is a near certainty. And I am afraid the news just gets worse." Moira gritted her teeth, willing herself to remain steady – she wasn't sure how much worse this news could possible get.

She was about to find out. "I saw the Archdemon," Riordan said without further pretense. "It has finally shown itself, at the head of the horde. With it directing their purpose, the darkspawn will be much more aggressive – and much more dangerous."

"They are already dangerous enough." Loghain was as grim-faced as she'd ever seen him. "But I suppose at least that this means the battle will be decisive, either way. We will defeat the Archdemon, or die trying."

"Yes." Something about the way Riordan said that simple word set Moira on edge. He glanced from her to Loghain keenly, his expression curious and incisive, and a disquieting apprehension stole through her – she got the sense that there was something else, something he hadn't told them, and that whatever it was, it was very, very bad.

"Tell me," he said slowly. "Were you ever told the reason why the Grey Wardens are required to end a Blight?"

Moira's sense of apprehension deepened into dread. Loghain merely frowned in impatient puzzlement.

"I would assume it has something to do with that tainted blood you forced down my throat," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

"It does," Riordan affirmed. "But… that is not the entirety of it. I had… hoped Duncan would have shared this with you, at least, Moira."

"Duncan shared nothing with me." Even she was surprised at the amount of vitriol in her voice. "I didn't even know the taint was fatal until a few months ago when Alistair let it slip over a bowl of stew. So no, you can be certain that if there is a secret Grey Warden method for ending a Blight, I know nothing of it."

"I see." Riordan sounded genuinely apologetic. "While the taint undoubtedly gives us an edge in fighting darkspawn, that is… not the primary reason we take its corruption into ourselves." A creeping cold settled over Moira, beginning in the pit of her stomach and flowing outward, like a river of ice through her veins. "The Archdemon, as you know, is the corrupted soul of an Old God – vengeful, and immortal. If the Archdemon is killed by a blow from any but a Grey Warden, its soul will simply flee its body and seek out an empty vessel. The darkspawn are soulless by nature – the Archdemon's soul, drawn to the taint, will seek out and possess the nearest darkspawn. Since the darkspawn are innumerable, this process renders the Archdemon functionally immortal. The Blight would never end."

The Archdemon's soul will seek out an empty vessel… drawn to the taint…

"You said if the Archdemon is killed by anyone _but_ a Grey Warden." Moira's voice came out as barely more than a hoarse whisper, the dread filling her, rising within her, choking her. She already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask, but she needed to hear Riordan say the words. "What happens when the Archdemon is killed by a Grey Warden?"

The look of deep regret in Riordan's eyes told her that he knew she had already figured out the answer. "The Archdemon's soul senses the taint in the Grey Warden's blood. It believes the Warden to be another darkspawn, and moves to take control of the body. But a Warden, of course, is not an empty vessel, not like a true darkspawn. When the Archdemon tries to take possession of the Warden, its soul comes into contact with the Warden's soul."

"And I take it the Warden does not survive this encounter." Loghain, too, was somber, though if the revelation of the truth of a Warden's role was affecting him as it was affecting her, he hid it well.

Riordan shook his head, and the motion carried a great, damning finality. "No. The souls cannot survive contact. To destroy the Archdemon's soul, the Grey Warden's soul too must be destroyed."

In the end, it wasn't even death. She could have handled the inevitability of death. But this –this was worse than death; it was _oblivion_. The colors bled away from her vision, leaving the room in muted shades of grey. She must have looked as stricken as she felt, because Riordan attempted to muster himself to full height and adopt an air of confidence.

"Traditionally, the senior Warden present decides whose responsibility it is to make the killing blow," he explained. "I am by far the senior Warden here, and my Calling approaches soon. I will volunteer to take the final blow." He paused, as if knowing he needed to temper his optimism. "But… if I am unable to do so, if I have fallen in battle, then one of you must do so instead. I am sorry. But it is the only way."

The only way. To save Ferelden – to save the world – one of them, in this room, would have to perform the most ultimate sacrifice that could ever be made. She felt her knees weaken, her head swoon; it was only by sheer strength of will that she remained standing. Riordan now carefully avoided her gaze; perhaps what he had seen there had been too painful.

"If it is the only way, then it shall be done. I am prepared to do what is necessary to save my home." The words, so direct in their finality, came in Loghain's rough tenor, from the voice that had engaged in heated discussion with her as they marched the length of Ferelden; that had teased her, in that wry and laconic way of his, over many a campfire; that had tenderly comforted her as she'd wept for her dead family. The thought of that voice, of the man it belonged to, being extinguished from creation –

"Thank you, Riordan, for telling us." She summoned every ounce of her resolve to prevent her voice from cracking. She would _not _cry. Not here, not now, not in front of Riordan. Not in front of _him_.

"In peace, vigilance; in war, victory; in death, sacrifice. Now you understand the true meaning of the Grey Warden motto. Our sacrifice ensures the continued survival of the very world we love. It is not a pleasant duty, but a necessary one." Riordan sighed. "But it is one thing to know, and another to accept. Go. You should both get some rest, before we leave for Denerim."

She stood there, gazing mutely at the grey walls, bled of all color, until a gentle hand at her shoulder broke her reverie. His familiar hand, rough and big and warm, guiding her, shepherding her out of the room, until the door closed behind them, and she looked down the endless abyss of the corridor, its lushly carpeted expanse somehow ridiculous and surreal, that such luxury and beauty could exist in a world that she might soon no longer know: and then she turned, and found herself pressed up against him, his body warm and firm, his linen shirt soft and clean, and she chanced a glance up at his face and saw his blue eyes, so intently regarding her, and her shield fell away, utterly forgotten, as she buried her face in his chest and wept.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **And here we are... the last chapter I'll be able to finish before Inquisition is released! And it's not like it ended on a dramatic note or anything ;) While I (and most of you, I imagine) will be spending a good deal of time in the next couple of weeks digging deep into DA:I, rest assured that this story will not go on a multi-week long hiatus. I'd like to work on it a bit next week, and hopefully get it out before the end of the month, but I make no promises. Next chapter will be a doozy, so I'll want to take the time to get it just right, too.

On (sort of) that note... I mentioned a few chapters back that I had intended to raise the rating of this fic from T to M. I kept forgetting to change the rating in the settings, because my content wasn't calling for it, but... as I believe we are encroaching ever-closer to, er, "M rated content," I will indeed be changing the rating when the next chapter is released, so if you are following this story, be sure to either 'favorite' or 'follow' it, bookmark the page in your browser, or adjust your search filters to include M rated fics - otherwise, future updates will not appear in the Dragon Age archive for you, since the default filter is set only for K-T rated fics.

Thank you once again to all of you who have reviewed, PM'd, favorited, followed, or read this story. Your support means more than you know! As ever, thanks to my awesome beta EasternViolet, who always offers great advice and feedback and keeps me from indulging too much in my penchant for adverbs ;)


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